Ink, Invisible
by Coquillage Atlas
Summary: The story of a hopeful writer and her biggest find yet... The Phantom of the Opera. Set in the original time period, based off both the book and the 2004 movie, but mostly the movie.
1. Chapter 1: Plumeria

It was early October when Manager Garmin finally sent me a letter, which served as my official passport to the Palais Garnier, the most famous opera house in Paris. I packed quickly, putting my research notebooks carefully in my suitcase, selected my most sensible dresses, hired a carriage to take me to the Opera House, and said goodbye to my servants.

The last belonging I considered packing was my letter from Christine Daae. In it she simply stated that there had been a Phantom, that she believed him to still be alive; and in her conclusion, she asked that I contact her no further, nor send a letter in reply. I opened the creamy parchment, perused it again, and left it on my desk. There was no reason to bring it with me. I knew what it said.

* * *

><p>I planned to stay at the Opera for only a few months. I had already interviewed the people that worked there during the so-called "reign of the Phantom". Most of those that had survived the fire did not return to the Opera, and so I had tracked them down with help from the Manager, Luke Garmin, who was very helpful in supplying me with a ledger of old employees. The first interview I had conducted had been with Madame Giry, the original ballet instructor.<p>

"Madame Giry," I had asked, "do you recall any strange events during your stay at the Opera? Anything… unusual?"

"No," she replied. Her quick, bird-like eyes found mine; they were piercing. "And I doubt anyone else that worked there will either. The 'Phantom' is a figment of the ballet girls' imagination. They made the story up and spread it around, and everyone went along with it because it was amusing. Like all fashions, the story of the Phantom has died out too. I have no idea why you want to go digging around in old fairy tales."

"But you must admit that the Opera fire was strange," I pressed.

"The chandelier fell, Mademoiselle. The curtains caught fire from the candles on stage, and the chandelier rope was just above the curtains, and so the rope burned through and the chandelier fell. Any other questions?"

"But what about the murdered stagehand? The strange noises? The people that saw a masked man?"

"The stagehand died of a heart attack; he always had a weak heart. The strange noises and 'masked man' were all from imagination, Mademoiselle. That is all the 'Phantom' was, and ever will be. This book you're writing won't be very factual, if you insist on believing everything you hear."

* * *

><p>I took my leave after a few more pointed comments from her, and I almost discarded the whole project on my way home; my thoughts were so negative. What if she was correct? She was quite intelligent, very astute. She had worked at the Opera House for years.<p>

But then I remembered something she had said in the middle of our interview. She had said, "Of course he wasn't real!"

_He_, I thought. _He_. She had only said "he" once throughout her whole interview. Maybe she knew more than she was saying. _Or maybe_, said my sensible half, _maybe she just said he. It's a very normal word._

But I didn't give up. I went on to interview two stagehands, three ballet girls, and one of the original managers, Gilles Andre.

* * *

><p>He spoke softly; he had suffered a stroke soon after his retirement from the Opera, just after the fire. I had to strain to hear him, but what he said was startling.<p>

"These letters," I had asked. "What was the seal on them?"

"A red skull," he murmured, closing his eyes briefly. "I remember that quite clearly. And they were all the same: demanding more important roles for Christine, and payment for his services. Apparently he thought that he deserved some sort of recompense for his time."

"And by what name did he sign them?"

"O.G. 'Opera Ghost'. And the letters – sometimes I found them on my desk; Firmin once found his on center stage; other times Madame Giry brought them to us. They were addressed in an old-fashioned calligraphy, with black ink. We never figured out exactly where they came from."

"And what can you tell me about the fire?" I asked, jotting down some notes.

"It was evening, the first production of _Dinorah_. Christine Daae was in the lead role. She had just finished her first scene – a soliloquy. She spoke her last lines, but the curtain didn't fall like it was supposed to. I was surprised; it was time for the next scene. Christine was just standing there looking up into the rafters above the stage. Her face was white. I remember clearly that she was shaking her head. She said, '_No._', just like that, and then she turned and ran offstage. I got to my feet; of course; my star was fleeing the stage! And the curtain fell, and the stage boy who was supposed to move the candles never did. The curtains caught on fire, the chandelier came down. That night we were ruined. I left a few days later."

"Did you ever get the chance to talk to Christine?"

"No, no, she left even before I did. With the Viscount. I have her address, though. I'll write it down for you." He looked up when he had finished, handing me the bit of paper. "I have no doubt, Mademoiselle, that the Phantom was more than a story. _Someone_ wrote those letters, someone sealed those papers, and someone was talking to Christine during _Dinorah_. I suppose I'll never know. That is, unless you finish your research." He laughed a wheezy laugh, and rose slowly to shake my hand.

"Goodbye, Monsieur," I said. "If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to write me. Here's my address."

* * *

><p>The ballet girls and stage hands had been no help whatsoever; they only spoke of the Phantom as a terrifying monster that lurked in the shadows and preyed on the innocent. They also mentioned that he had a mask, and this was the only information that was common to each of their stories. <em>A half-mask<em>, they said, _to hide his face_. _He doesn't have a nose, only a hole, and his eyes are yellow. _

_If you see his face, you're never seen again._

I disregarded much of their fanciful tales, only taking what I thought might be useful: the mask. It would be plausible to wear a mask if one wanted to keep his anonymity. The part that struck me as strange was that the mask was only half of one. Why would you wear half a mask to conceal your identity? A full one would work much better. And Andre had mentioned Madame Giry. Despite my sudden confidence that she knew much more than she was saying, I did not go back to visit her. I knew she would say nothing.

* * *

><p>It was early afternoon when I reached the Opera House. I took one last look down the street, watching the peddlers shout and point at their wares. Then I went inside, and the heavy double doors shut behind me with a dull click. I was here.<p>

It was then that everything began…


	2. Chapter 2: Mint Blossom

Part One

It had been three weeks since my arrival, and I was sitting at my desk in my room, thinking hard about my next sentence, when it happened.

"Mademoiselle Laurent." His voice came from the candelabra on the wall.

I stared at it, eyebrows raised, immediately aware of who was speaking to me, despite having never heard this particular voice before. "What do you want, Phantom?"

"Some respect would be nice, Mademoiselle."

"Very well, _Monsieur_. What is it you want?"

"A favor."

This came from the ceiling. I shifted in my chair, still holding my feathered pen, and waited.

"I wish you to listen to what I'm about to tell you."

"What is it?"

"What do you know of Manager Garmin?"

I frowned and said, "Nothing much. Why?"

"He is planning to marry you."

"Why on earth would he want to marry _me_?"

"He is under the impression that once you are married, all your property and inheritance will pass to him. Is this true?"

"Well, under French law, yes."

"After he has secured your funds, he will dispose of you."

My hands were cold; I put down the pen and gripped the arms of my chair, trying to understand what he was saying. "How do you know all this?"

"He has done so once before. To a woman named Claire, but he was not convicted. Since then he has changed his identity - he was originally John Monett - and switched cities."

"What happened to the woman? Claire?"

"She was murdered. Strangled. You do not wish this to happen to you."

"No, I don't. Why are you telling me this? Why should I even believe you?"

He ignored my second question. "He will be here in about a minute."

"Why?"

"To offer you a job. He wants to hire you as the new opera writer."

"Okay," I replied. "But that makes no sense. Why would you inform me of this now?"

There wasn't a reply.

I was on my feet, clenching the back of my chair.

The glass in the mirror trembled as he spoke again. "He is coming now."

Sitting back down in my chair, I grasped my pen, lifting it over my parchment, but halted, unable to remember what I had been writing about. My eyes flew over the words, but I couldn't take any of it in. The letters blurred into runny black splotches on the white page.

There was a knock on the door.

I jumped, and my chair wobbled against the floor. Getting clumsily to my feet, I crossed to the opposite wall, and twisted the doorknob.

* * *

><p>True to the Phantom's ominous words, Manager Luke Garmin was waiting outside.<p>

As he entered and kissed my hand, I felt the same overwhelming confusion sweep over me, even stronger now, freezing my face into a stony stare.

Garmin did not see my face change, as he was still bent over my hand. I forced my features into more amiable lines, and stepped back as he released my fingers. His eyes were a pleasant blue, blond hair swept back from his forehead; handsome pale brows and angled nose strongly marking his attractive face.

"What is it you wish to see me about, Luke?" I asked, trying to sound inquisitive.

"I have a job opportunity for you, Katelienne. I'm sure it's one you will be pleased about."

He shut the door behind him with a click. I moved imperceptibly back, my heart pounding.

His face was lit with triumph, one hand lifted excitedly into the air. "How would you like to become the new opera writer?"

I stared at him in feigned surprise. "I – I would be delighted. I'll need details, of course." I _was_ thankful for his offer; I needed money if I wanted to continue shopping in Paris. Everything was so expensive here.

Luke nodded sharply, smiling brightly down at me. "Well, you can begin work tomorrow. Just start outlining your opera; I'll be checking up on it every now and then. You'll receive thirty thousand francs for each opera you complete."

"I'll begin right away. Thank you, Luke. Is there anything else?"

"I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me tonight, Katelienne. You know, to celebrate your new position and all."

"I'm sorry, Luke, but I can't accept. I have a lot to do tonight."

Undeterred, he nodded again, and opened the door, tipping his hat. "Perhaps another time."

I simply smiled, unwilling to make any concessions. "Goodnight, Luke."

"Goodnight." He stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

><p>I listened to his steps receding down the corridor, clicking away over the wooden boards. As soon as I deemed him gone, I threw the bolt and sat down in my chair.<p>

The Phantom's voice thrummed from behind me. "Mademoiselle?"

"What?" I gasped, starting, and then scowled. I had forgotten that he was there.

"He will not return tonight. He believes this half of the Opera House is haunted at night, and since night is fast approaching, you are safe."

"Okay, okay. Why should I believe anything you've just told me? I know Luke. You're just a voice."

He did not rise to the bait. "I recognized him from the paper. I do read, you know. It is him." He paused. "I can see you are wondering why I haven't 'gotten rid' of him yet."

"I was, yes, but it is none of my business," I admitted. "And I need tangible proof of Luke's past life, if you really want me to believe you and not just chalk your claims up to mad delusions."

Once again, he ignored my attempt to needle him.

"I did not kill Garmin because I do not want blood on my hands. I do not kill people. Since I am bound to this Opera House due to my supposed crimes, I cannot inform the authorities that the manager is a murderer. However, if you were so obliged…" As he spoke, a newspaper article, cut neatly out and worn with age, fluttered down from the ceiling boards to land at my feet.

I reached down and picked it up, flipping it over to see an announcement of a death: Claire Jones.

I looked at the paper with a sinking feeling, realizing that the article was valid. It was from the very same newspaper I often read in the mornings, and the accompanying lithograph of the couple (John and Claire Monett; it must have been a copy of their wedding portrait) was only two years old. Luke Garmin's features were identical to Monett's, except for a scar, thin and white, across his right cheekbone, and a little mole at the corner of his left eye. I frowned. Luke had no such scar, but he did have a mole in the very same place.

He continued, "…you could inform them yourself. You are a well known writer, and trusted. They would believe you."

"And what if they couldn't catch him?" I shot back. "What then? He would come after me. I'd be dead within a week. Also, Luke doesn't have a scar. This man does." I flapped the printed drawing in the air. "It's not him."

"It _is_ him. He wears makeup over it; it's not a very deep scar. And I will see to it that he does not escape."

"I need time to think about it. I need more proof."

"Very well. It is up to you. But remember, Mademoiselle, do you wish there to be a second victim?" His voice trailed away, and I recognized the indication of dismissal – he was gone.

Going to my desk, I jotted down a few short notes (changed appearance, Luke Garmin, Claire Monett) and locked the paper away in the desk drawer. Then I lay down fully clothed on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, tense with indecision, wavering unbelief, and – fear.


	3. Chapter 3: Asparagus Fern

I sat at my desk the next morning, reading the newspaper and fretting. I had not slept well. My dark red-brown hair was pinned up into a bun, and I wore a lavender gown, shot through with threads of silver and gold. I held a pair of scissors, ready to cut out anything I thought useful. I had already garnered a large collection of articles, some pertaining to the Opera House, some dating from the early 1800s that hinted at the presence of a Phantom, others detailing the extensive fire that had raged here three years earlier. My interview notebooks sat to one side. So far, I had created a timeline of facts that I thought were connected.

First, Christine Daae had arrived at the Opera. Secondly, she was appointed as prima donna and acclaimed by all her audiences. Thirdly, a series of strange and unexplained catastrophes had bewildered the opera employees and managers. Fourthly, the fire destroyed the main stage and some of the auditorium. Fifthly, Ms. Daae and the esteemed opera patron, Viscount Raoul de Chagny, had departed together.

I speculated that the Phantom had fallen in love with the 18-year-old Christine, who was rumored to be not only in possession of a glorious voice, but also radiant beauty.

Looking through my notebooks, I concluded that much of my theory was based on conjecture and wildly embellished tales (except for Andre's clear-headed recollections), and was struck by the same inclination that had been prodding at me ever since I had heard the Phantom's voice last night.

I could interview the Phantom himself.

It would provide me with a different point of view; although not trustworthy, it would at least present another angle and probably fill in some gaps in my theory.

Sliding the articles and papers into their separate folders, I put them away, closed and locked the drawers, and stood up, stretching. It was late morning, almost lunch, and the tray of food that was always brought to my room would be here soon. Since it was Tuesday, it would probably be fried fish, bread, and an apple. After I ate, I would attempt to contact the Phantom.

The tray was outside; I brought it in. While I chewed a last bite of fried fish, I pondered my options. I could leave a note in Box Five, which was rumored to be the Phantom's favorite. I could simply shout for him until he replied (which would make me look insane, and probably not add to my friends). Or I could wait for him to contact me again. Shoving the final bite of food into my mouth, I doodled stars on my notebook, laboring to come up with more ideas.

Then I recalled the events of last night. The Phantom was under the impression that I was deciding whether or not to inform the authorities of Garmin's location (which I was trying not to think about). How could I interview him about touchy topics when he had the topic of Garmin hanging ominously over my head?

First, I decided, I must determine that the Phantom's claims were true. I had inexplicably and stupidly believed the Phantom last night, although the lithograph _had _been interesting. I was thankful, though, that I had taken the job Luke had offered. Writing operas, no matter how difficult, would be a welcome respite from my research.

_I must make sure,_ I thought, _that the Phantom has no evil designs in mind, and I have to figure out if what he said about Garmin was true._ I picked up the newspaper cutting of the Monetts' wedding, staring down into Garmin's face as though waiting for him to speak.

"Have you decided?" asked a voice from overhead.

I jumped, scowling. "Can't you even say hello?"

"That is him. And the authorities are still waiting to be informed."

Still irked, I snapped, "Well, you could send them one of your famous letters!" My stomach dropped. I wasn't supposed to know about his skull-sealed notes.

The Phantom actually laughed, the rich tones scintillating around the room. "How would you know of those, Mademoiselle?"

"I've been doing research on you, Monsieur," I said, regretting my idiotic slip. "I was wondering if you would answer some of my questions."

"So you could display them to the literary world? I think not."

"I wouldn't say they were from you, Monsieur, only that they were from a trusted source. It would add mystery. Audiences love mystery."

"Why do you think I would simply give you my point of view?"

"I'm sure you wish to make your perspective known, Monsieur. No one likes to be ignored. Besides, if my research is to be well-rounded and plausible, I must have all the points of view I can get. I'm not going to disclose any names in my novel, and currently I'm unsure whether or not I even plan to publish it."

Holding my breath, I waited for his response. Most of that speech had been true, except for one important fact: I was _very_ determined to publish indeed. Nothing was going to stop me, not now.

He answered more quickly than I had expected. "I accept. I choose the place, you choose the time."

"What about one-thirty today?"

"Meet me on the roof."

"I accept."

Locking my desk, I went to the wardrobe and pulled out a dark blue cloak.

I pulled it around me, locked the door, hung the key around my neck, and followed the corridor to the stairs. It was only two flights up to the roof from my tower room.

When I reached the door that opened onto the roof, I hesitated and checked for the knife hidden at my ankle. I took a deep breath, straightened up, and slowly pulled the rooftop door open.


	4. Chapter 4: Purple Carnation

The roof's grey cobblestones were littered with dead leaves, their bright shades of orange and gold making the rooftop into a blanket of color. Stone gargoyles and winged horses rose up all around the roof, their limbs reaching to the sky, wings outspread towards the sun. As I stepped through the crunchy blanketing of dead vegetation, I shivered as a light cold breeze swept past. The Phantom wasn't here yet.

Choosing a winged horse's broad pedestal, I leaned back, head between his wings, and opened my notebook. Each section was marked with a name, and under each name were quotes, my notes, and a small biography of each person. This was my interview notebook. I titled the top of a blank page _The Phantom_, skipped a line, and wrote _December 7__th_.

A voice rang around me, as if it came from everywhere at once. "What questions do you have?"

I looked around once, searching for him, and gave it up instantly. If he did not wish to be seen, he wouldn't be.

Thinking quickly, I asked my bluntest question first. "What was the nature of your relationship with Christine Daae?"

There was complete and total silence.

The wind rustled a few leaves into the air, sweeping them over the rooftop.

I shifted a little on my hard stone perch, and tried again. "Well, what about this. Where were you and –"

The Phantom cut me off. "I was in love with Ms. Daae."

"Oh." My fingers fumbled with the page as I tried to put this into writing, but I was so aware that he was watching me that I could not. I put the pen down and closed the notebook.

His voice seemed close by, as if he stood in front of me, but there was no one there.

"Three years ago, Christine Daae came to the Opera Populaire. She was young, almost eighteen. Her voice was beautiful beyond any I had ever heard. She had a natural skill for singing. I took it upon myself to teach her. With my help, she progressed immensely. She was soon appointed to prima donna." He paused, as if in memory.

His voice was softer when he spoke again."Her lover arrived around that time. He was the Viscount Raoul de Chagny. After hearing of me, he decided she must cut off all connection with me. He believed I was dangerous. She refused to stop speaking to me, but she did accept Raoul's engagement ring. I became angry. I thought she had loved me. I was desperate. On the night before they planned to elope, she sang the lead part in _Dinorah_."

There was another pause. I opened my eyes, to check for danger. The roof before me was still empty.

"During the end of her first scene, I appeared in the rafters above the stage. No one else could see me or hear what I said; only her. I asked her if she would reconsider, if she would break off her engagement to Raoul and marry me instead. She refused and fled the stage."

I could imagine how the scene had played out: The Phantom, above the stage, looking down at the beautiful white-faced girl, her eyes wide. He must have been holding a ring behind his back. I wondered what Christine had been thinking. Was she distraught? Confused? Frightened? Horrified?

"The curtain fell as she left, descending onto the candles. The stage boy had neglected to move them before lowering the curtain. The chandelier fell; the guests fled; the Opera erupted into chaos and flames. Despite this, everyone managed to escape, including Christine and Raoul. I left." His tone was clipped, bordering on indifference. "I have not spoken to anyone for two years. When you arrived, you were the first person that had asked about me in a long time."

"But what about the other events? The death of the lead stagehand, the letters, the misplaced belongings, the falling backdrops?" I shuffled through my notes, listening for a reply.

"The letters I wrote to further Christine's career. The stagehand died of a heart attack after seeing me on the catwalks as I was watching Christine practice one day. I regret his death; it was never my intention for anyone to die. The misplaced belongings – they were simply misplaced belongings. It amused the workers to blame everything on me. However, I did drop a backdrop once, a few feet from the original prima donna, Carlotta Giudicelli. I meant to scare her, as she was usurping all the major roles and leaving none for Christine."

"Why did you seal your letters with a red skull?"

He sounded amused. "To frighten the managers into obedience."

"Why do you live below the Opera House?"

"I see you've forgotten I'm a suspected murderer."

"You seem to have hidden yourself pretty well. Why don't you use that talent to leave?"

"This is where I intend to stay. Here I write my music, and live in peace, and am constantly surrounded by things that inspire me: music, dancing, singers."

"But what do you eat?"

"I buy food, Mademoiselle." The words were laden with sarcasm.

I raised my eyebrows and changed my tact. "Do you wear a mask?"

"Do I wear a mask? What does your research tell you?"

"Nothing of importance. The employees weren't very…factual."

"I wear a mask."

I opened my mouth to ask why, changed my mind, and said, "Do you regret anything you've done in the past couple of years?"

"No."

"Okay, well, then what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?"

"I haven't decided."

I shut my notebook. The interview seemed to be over. "In case you're wondering, I'm not going to turn Luke in."

"Do you have a good reason?"

"It's too dangerous."

"He will be more dangerous if you do nothing."

"Can't you just scare him away or something?"

"How do you propose I do that? Besides, it will accomplish nothing except for your happiness. He will still be alive, and no one will know better."

I closed my eyes and sighed. Why was this _my_ problem? "Even if I did tell the police, why would they believe me? I have no proof except for an old newspaper clipping and my word. I can't even explain how I figured it out. I would have to lie about everything."

"Your word wouldn't be doubted. You are the type of person the police would believe."

My stomach sank. "No, I don't think so. I disagree. I think you should tell them."

"I cannot leave the opera house."

"For heaven's sake, can't you disguise yourself at all? You could pretend to be a gentleman, and wear a top hat and nice clothes, and a mask or something."

"Masks are noticeable, Mademoiselle."

"There's a masquerade in two weeks, right? I bet some policemen will be there; they're usually around to keep an eye on the crowd. You could pose as a visitor to the Opera and tip them off to Luke's presence. You could say that you knew him before he arrived here, that 'the man in the corner is definitely him'. You could lie. Why don't you?"

"They would take me in for questioning later."

"You could say you wanted to be anonymous."

"They would still question me. You should follow your own plan, and inform the police yourself. Including the anonymity."

"They would question me too! I can't lie. It's almost impossible."

"And yet you lie to yourself. Do you really think that any woman is safe from him here?"

"Oh please, shut up!" I had risen to my feet, breathing hard. His comment had struck deep.

There was a light whooshing noise from behind me. I spun around.

The roof was still empty.

Rolling my eyes, I headed to the edge of the roof, bracing my hands on the cool rim of the wall, and tried to cool off. My notebook lay on the base of the statue, forgotten. "So what am I supposed to do?"

"Go to the authorities. Tell them that someone has tipped you off, and that they wish to remain anonymous. Give them the article and state your facts. They will either listen to you or not. If they don't, we will figure out another plan."

I looked out across the city below, the black-tiled roofs glittering in the sun, the green trees and gardens sparkling with dots of reds and blues and golds.

"I'll think about it," I finally said.

"That is what you said last night."

"I know that. Why do you think I don't know that?" I snapped, turning towards the voice. It was coming from my left now, within a cluster of stone angels, their wings outspread behind their bodies. "And why do you insist upon hiding all the time?"

He suddenly appeared in front of me, having come from my right so quickly that I only saw a blur of black.

I backed up into the wall, startled.

His face was half-covered by a white mask, slipping around his left eye and stopping in a curve just before the line of his chin. His eyes were dark green, his hair deep ebony, and the clothes he wore were the kind fit for spies and highwaymen: a long black cloak, dark shirt, and black breeches.

The mask added mystery to what might have been a commonplace, the white contrasting vividly with his tanned skin. His nose was handsomely shaped, strong and straight, his eyebrows lifted in pointed arcs, his lips sensitive, like Michelangelo's David. His hands were long-fingered and brown, set on his hips with a devil-may-care air.

I involuntarily reached for the hilt of my knife, then caught myself and straightened up.

His lips quirked. "I usually have that effect on people."

I almost looked away in embarrassment, but caught myself, forcing my eyes to stay steadily on his. "I've thought of a deal."

He waited.

I said, "If I inform the police that Luke is their man, I expect you to allow me to publish my book, and show me the underground part of the Opera House as part of my research."

His expression wavered from amusement to sincere consideration and back again.

My heart was beating quickly: I was being very stupid, concocting a deal with a suspected murderer, but I was intensely curious about him now.

"I accept," he agreed, to my amazement and instant feeling of dread. "I will take you down there tomorrow night. However, I will not allow you to publish your novel if you include my interview. You will have to leave it out."

"Very well, I accept your terms. I think this interview is over."

He nodded. "Remember what I said about Garmin. He is still interested in you, Mademoiselle. I overheard him last night, talking to his friends. He plans to ask you to dinner tonight. I suggest –"

"You suggest I decline," I interrupted, a little annoyed.

"Yes. Of course, it is up to you." He bowed, raised his head to focus intense eyes on me – and vanished completely, dropping out of sight with a whoosh.

I took a few cautious steps forward and looked down at the cobblestones where he had been standing. They were sliding shut quickly, and only a little more of a foot of darkness was left.

_It's a trapdoor_, I thought in sudden comprehension. There was only a few seconds left before it closed. I held my breath, took one last step, and jumped.


	5. Chapter 5: Thistle

_I realize I haven't actually introduced myself, sorry! I'm Coquillage, nice to meet you, and I'm new to this whole FanFiction thing, but it's all so interesting and fun and I already love it! Send me reviews on my story if you like it!_

_Oh, yeah, and my Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera, except for my new characters - Luke Garmin and Katelienne, who I need to give a last name. Hmm... Anyway, please don't sue me. Thanks._

_Enjoy reading!_

* * *

><p>The landing was harder than I'd expected, and sent pain up my heels all the way to my hips. Bracing my hands on what felt like hot stones, (and instantly jerking away) I opened my eyes to see a mirror. My face was reflected, cheeks pink with exertion, lips red, eyes deep brown, wisps of auburn hair fluttering around my face.<p>

Turning, I saw another mirror, and then another, and yet another.

I was in a _box of mirrors_.

Where had the Phantom gone from here? As I glanced up, the ceiling snapped back into place: another mirror, hexagonal, formed the top of the now-sealed box. I gasped for breath and reached for my knife, intending to smash the hilt into the mirror before me. Then I realized I had dropped it just before jumping. I had been afraid that I would hurt myself with its blade.

It was hot in the mirrored room, a light burning in the reflections, but I couldn't tell from where. The white light was reflected in all the mirrors, a single candelabrum multiplied into many more, shining blindingly into my eyes. I inspected the first mirror carefully; looking for any cracks I could dig my nails into, but found nothing. The second mirror was the same, clear of any flaws, and by the time I reached the third, my head was pounding with stress and pain and panic.

Gasping for breath, I discarded my cloak, and ran my fingers monotonously down the glass, my vision blurring occasionally. _No! Concentrate! Think! Are there any cracks? _I yelled at myself silently, biting my lips to increase the rush of adrenaline.

Sweat ran gently down my back, dripping onto the floor. I hit my fist hard against the glass, pounding frantically, and then threw myself into the mirror. Stumbling back with a pained sound, I felt my skull for fractures, and ran trembling fingers through my hair.

Surely I had a hairpin? Finding one, I jammed it into a small hole that I glimpsed suddenly, a dark dot glimmering in the ceiling. An ominous rumbling noise built around me. Shaking, sweating, and disoriented, I pressed my fingers to my mouth and waited; for what, I didn't know, but I was certain it wouldn't be pretty.

An arm slid roughly around my waist, pulling me back into a dimly lit room. I tugged away from the confining grasp, stumbling backwards to see the Phantom, his black-clad body filling my entire line of sight. The rumbling noise built and crashed from behind me; I quickly turned to see the mirror box sliding shut, rows of spikes crisscrossing the place where I had just been standing.

"Why did you follow me?" growled the man behind me.

I didn't answer, still staring at the wall where the spike-filled box had been, my mouth stupidly open. I could've died in there, the spikes piercing through my torso and legs, bleeding slowly to death.

"Why did you make that _thing_?" I demanded, whirling to glare at him, aware that I was still shaking. "It's monstrous!"

"You shouldn't have followed me," he snapped back, his voice low-toned and dangerous. "Most people _avoid_ phantoms."

"I'm not _most people_, as you should know by now!"

"You were stupid," he said curtly, ignoring my fury. He turned and strode to the back of the room and flung open the door. "You can leave through this corridor. Follow the steps up, turn right at every landing."

I glared at him, teeth chattering faintly in my ears. "No, I'm not leaving yet. We're in a hidden section of the Opera House, right? You can show me around."

"I said tomorrow night."

"Well, it was my deal. I say now." I moved towards him. My hands clenched at my sides. I wished, suddenly, that I had my knife. It was still on the rooftop, along with my notebook.

"I suggest you leave."

"I suggest you stop telling me what to do!"

He stepped closer, looming over me. "I say _you leave_." He was very close; I could see a fleck of gold in each emerald eye.

I continued to glare at him, but I knew he had the upper hand. Whirling past his dark form, I went out.

* * *

><p>It was easy to find my way back, and the twin urges of fear and adrenaline drove me quickly to my room. I slammed the door, locked it, and sank down in my desk chair, unconsciously fiddling with one of my pens. Clearly, the Phantom was someone I didn't want to follow around without some sort of protection, like very big men or several sharp weapons. I doubted, however, that anyone was his equal in combat.<p>

I sighed and got up. I needed to eat something after all this excitement.

The kitchen was deserted, which was unusual, but I managed to find some rolls and cheese and fruit. I piled them on a tray and carried it back to my room, listening intently as I went through the corridors, but there were no sounds out of the ordinary. Perhaps the Phantom had withdrawn to his home.

When I unlocked my door, I was surprised to see a letter lying on the carpet. I put the tray down on a nearby table and picked the note up.

Just as I did so, I remembered that I had forgotten to get my notebook and knife from the roof. I went into my room, set the tray on my desk, shoved the note into my pocket and hurried out.

* * *

><p>The roof was completely empty; the spot over the mirror box (or where I thought it was) was normal-looking and bare. I went over to the winged horse and picked up my notebook, hurriedly flipping through the pages to make sure everything was still there. Everything was. I sighed in relief and looked around for my knife.<p>

But there was nothing on the stones except a few dead leaves and the carcass of a dead bird beneath a stone angel.

I frowned. Either the Phantom had nicked it, or someone else had come up here and stumbled across it. Probably one of the stagehands. I looked around again, just to make sure, but there was still no sign of it. I was obviously not going to find it. Sighing in frustration, I left.

* * *

><p>When I got back to my room I remembered the note. I sat down on my bed, took a much-needed bite of bread and cheese, and unfolded the paper.<p>

_Katelienne:_

_I'd like to meet you for dinner tomorrow night. I thought it best to ask you in private, hence the note. This would not be a business meeting._

_Luke_

He had signed his name with a great flourish. I stared at it for a long time, thinking.

It would be best if I agreed to go, but every time I looked at Luke now (or even thought of him), I thought of his well-manicured hands closing around his wife's throat. I could hardly bear to speak to him – how on earth would I survive an entire evening alone with him? I closed my eyes and let the note fall from my fingers.

It was true, still, that the Phantom could have been lying. But why would he have lied? He had no interest in my well-being; he had made that clear this afternoon. He did not care about me. He did not even really want me to publish my book (not that I blamed him, of course, as it was all about him). I took another bite of bread and got to my feet, still thinking.

Eventually, I finished dinner and undressed, threw my nightgown on, and got into bed, blowing out the candles. I wouldn't go to dinner with Luke tomorrow night. I would avoid him as much as possible. And when I found absolute proof that he had murdered his wife – but only then – I would turn him in to the police and wash my hands of the whole sticky business.

I had just closed my eyes when I remembered the foolish agreement I had made with the Phantom. I groaned, turned over, and made myself fall asleep.


	6. Chapter 6: Balsamine

The next morning came too quickly. At the sound of bells outside (seven, eight, nine bongs), I rolled over and tried to fall back asleep, but the morning light lay bright and demanding across my pillows.

Giving up, I clambered sleepily out of bed to my wardrobe.

In the mirror, my face was pale and exhausted, and with a faint sense of dread I recalled yesterday's events. Sighing to myself, I pulled out a dark brown gown and fresh undergarments and went into the bathroom to change.

When I emerged, I was feeling much better, having dispelled my fears and worries with intelligent, sensible thoughts. It was true, yes, that the Phantom had saved my life, but I was in no debt to him for doing so: I hadn't forced him to save me; it was his choice.

Today, I thought, would be a day of relaxation. The staircase on my balcony led to a small roof garden, which was always locked and to which only I had the key. I would spend much of my day up there sleeping. My room was too hot to stay in all day.

As I crossed my room towards the balcony I realized that I still didn't have my knife. I would need to go buy another.

But this was untrue: on my desk, sitting there innocently, gleaming in the sunlight, was the knife, along with my missing hairpin.

I frowned and reached for both, turning them over suspiciously in my hands.

They were perfectly fine, and the knife had not acquired any new nicks.

_Of course_, I thought, _he's just trying to scare me. He thinks that if he sneaks into my room I'll lose it and stop bothering him. Well, he's wrong. I am definitely not done with him, __**or**__ my story._

So, instead of cowering in my room, I went up to the roof again, carrying blankets, lunch, and a book with me.

As I crossed the rooftop, I stopped by the railing and glanced down over the edge. It was a calm day; a few clouds lazed across the sky, blown by a gentle breeze, and the sun shone benevolently down upon the Opera and its neighboring building, causing them to glimmer brightly. I smiled and went into the garden, shutting and locking the gate behind me.

Inside were fruit trees, oaks, benches and hammocks (which swayed lightly over the ground, tantalizingly,) but I passed by, heading for the back and the weeping willows. Upon arriving, I placed my lunch basket underneath a nearby tree, made sure the lid was shut tightly to keep out ants, spread out my blankets on the ground, and lay down, arranging my skirts modestly around my legs. Then I opened _Romeo and Juliet_ to the second act.

After lunch I grew sleepy; setting down the book, I pulled my blanket around me and put my head down on my arms. The sound of willow leaves whispering in the wind, and nearby birdsong, lulled me quickly to sleep.

* * *

><p>I awoke to a male voice. "Katelienne."<p>

Struggling into a sitting position, I blinked sleepily into Luke Garmin's pale face.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, adrenaline rushing immediately through me. "I'm the only one with the key to this garden."

"The gate was open," he said, smoothly. "Are you feeling alright? Last night I knocked on your door and you never answered."

"I was on the roof," I improvised quickly. "Looking at the stars, thinking; you know. Why did you want to see me?"

"I didn't think to check up there. It makes sense, though. You like it up here, don't you?" He smiled, and his eyes creased at the edges. "Anyways, I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me tonight. Or maybe tomorrow, if you are busy."

I tried very hard to think of a negative answer appropriate to the situation. "Uh, I don't know yet. I have a lot to do."

His quick eyes swept from my book, to the blankets, to the empty lunch basket, and he smiled like a cat with a bird. "Really, Katelienne. I doubt that. Tonight we'll have dinner together. And don't say no! I insist."

As I opened my mouth to protest, he held up a long finger, and I reacted as I had always done before by not saying anything, whereupon I instantly regretted it.

"No, no!" he cried affably. "Not one word. Tonight at eight. I'll come to your room at seven. Good day, mademoiselle."

He strode off determinedly through the garden, letting himself out and going onto the main section of the roof. I stumbled to my feet, tripped momentarily over my skirts, and hurried after him, furious.

The rooftop door was shut. The rooftop was empty. Luke was gone.

Slamming the gate in frustration, I locked it with a vicious turn of the key. There was no way that I had left it open, as he had insinuated. I had checked the lock.

Glaring at the trees in lieu of Luke, I pressed my lips together, trying to figure out how to avoid having dinner with the manipulator. I could pretend to be ill, or I could say that someone had died and I was in grieving, or I could lock my door and pretend not to hear him when he knocked.

The third option seemed most appealing to me. It would send a direct message to him ("I have no desire to eat with you!") and also not involve a large amount of lying that would only catch up to me later. Going back to my blankets, I almost collapsed onto it, but remembering that Luke had a key to the garden, I angrily gathered up my belongings to go back to my stuffy room. His abrupt visit was more than infuriating; it was galling, seeing as he had given me the garden key in the first place, and promised to stay out of it without my permission to enter.

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon, the sun lying low and dark gold-red in the sky, and I was standing miserably on my balcony, staring out at the fading buildings below. The Phantom had promised to take me down to his house tonight; but I was beginning to regret my hastily struck agreement.<p>

What if he was a murderer too? And how was I supposed to protect myself if he was? Looking around aimlessly for help, I thought about weapons, and decided that I would bring my knife tonight, and sharp, thick hairpins, and no notebook or pencil (they'd only fill up my hands and make it harder to pull a knife), and an extra knife in case I lost the first one. I'd wear breeches and pin my hair up and don a sensible dark-colored shirt. Getting to my feet, I ventured back into my room to dig my items out of their respective hiding places and put them on.

Night came swiftly, bringing with it a deep silence that flowed through the Opera House like a mass of unfathomable fog. Luke, for whatever reason, had not yet knocked.

I sat at my desk, tense with anticipation, my fingers tapping noiselessly on the wood as I ran through my research.

_The Opera House is said to have an underground lake_, I read,_ but it is unreachable_...

_The Phantom is moody and irrational, flying into rages over little things…_

_...sometimes at night you can hear strains of music from below. They are very faint but beautiful_.

Hoping that only the music was true, I shut my notebook and locked it away. I hung my keys around my neck on a long chain and let them fall into the bodice of my gown, effectively hiding them from view. I didn't really need to bring them; I hadn't carried them around before, but now that Luke appeared to be a menace, I thought it better to hold on to them.

I had decided not to wear breeches – who knew how the Phantom might react, as he seemed rather old-fashioned – but I had strapped a knife to my left calf, and hung another around my waist in its sheath. I had braided my hair into an elaborate bun on the top of my head, and strong metal hairpins held it tight against my scalp, keeping it from uncurling into a messy ponytail. I could use the pins as weapons if I lost my knives, but if not, as lock picks.

When the clock struck seven-thirty, my door swung open and the Phantom came in.

"Mademoiselle."

I turned to smile affably at him, ignoring the fact that he had somehow jimmied the lock on my room and broken in, because I intended this evening to get off to a good start. "Monsieur."

"Would you like to see my home now?" he asked politely.

His clothes were simple: a grey linen shirt, black breeches and boots, but tonight he was wearing a black mask instead of white. I wondered why, decided not to dwell on it (maybe black meant death or something horrible like that?), and answered in the affirmative, getting to my feet.


	7. Chapter 7: Coriander Blossom

_Hi again, readers! I hope you are liking the pace at which this story is going, as I want to keep your attention! If you want to leave a comment or anything at all, send me a review! I love getting them! _

_Thank you for reading!  
><em>

* * *

><p>The staircase we started down was like none I had taken before. It was dirty with misuse and abandonment, the candle-holders dusty and blackened, small things scurrying into the shadows as we went past. Several times I nearly slipped on the oily stairs, but caught myself on the sharp metal railing before I fell.<p>

The third time blood ran in a speedy rivulet down my fingers, spattering crimson droplets onto the grimy steps, and the Phantom snagged my wrist with a quick movement. I flinched away and then forced myself to relax. He was trying to help, it seemed.

He spread out my fingers gently, head bent in examination as my hand flexed automatically, trying to unsuccessfully to close around the gash.

"Try and hold still," he said quietly, turning my hand this way and that to see the cut better.

"It's not deep." He uncapped a small bottle of clear liquid, dropping my hand to turn the lid. "But it should be cleaned out. This will hurt."

I nodded, bracing myself, and he took my hand again and poured a small amount onto my palm.

It stung and burned like acid, as though it ate away my skin, but as he poured, I watched the liquid run purple (black with soot, red with blood) and clear again, and I knew the liquid had done its job.

The Phantom let go of my hand, snapped the bottle shut, and wiped the blood on my palm away with a handkerchief.

"Do you need a bandage?" He was holding out another cloth.

"No," I said, shaking my head. It was only a thin line; the bleeding had stopped. Whatever that potion was, it worked very well. "It's fine, thank you."

He turned away, and we continued down the stairs. There were three staircases after this one; they were extremely long, stretching out beneath us like rows of decaying teeth.

"So," I said, keen to break the oppressive silence, "Luke showed up today."

The Phantom eyed me. "And?"

He had put himself between me and the railing. He probably thought I was very clumsy, which I was not, but it was clear that I wasn't going to be able to prove that unless I stopped tripping and grabbing stupidly at sharp objects.

"And he somehow came to the conclusion that we're having dinner tonight at eight, but since he didn't show up, I guess it's off. For now, at least."

I didn't doubt that Luke would stop asking, even if he hadn't done so tonight.

The dark-haired man beside me raised his eyebrows. "And you came with me to avoid him?"

I looked down at the stairs, watching my feet, for the steps were getting steeper. "Yes. And no. I came with you to see your house, _and_ to avoid him. He… has begun to disturb me."

"He will just come find you again later. If you want me to" – he paused, and I looked up at him, curious – "I could do something about it."

"I know you can," I said, hoping he didn't mean what I thought he did. If Luke died at the hands of the Phantom, I would never forgive myself. I didn't want Luke dead, only behind bars, and only as long as the proof against him was sound. "What do you propose? I can't think of anything that doesn't require a considerable amount of deceit."

"I could intercept him on the way to your room."

"And scare him again? Do you think that would make him leave?"

"Possibly. If it doesn't, you should lock your door and ignore him. He will probably go away when I show up, however."

"That would be extremely generous of you," I said. "Do you mind me asking – how do you plan to scare him?"

The Phantom's lips lifted at the corners. "That is really none of your business, is it?"

I wondered how exactly he was going to keep me from asking questions. "Oh, really?"

He only looked at me, so I shrugged and dropped the subject.

"How much farther is it to –"

The Phantom clapped his hand over my mouth, backing me up the stairs with him, one arm wrapping itself around my shoulders as I tried to pull away in shock and discomfort.

His voice was soft and rough. "We have visitors."

I shot a look back down the staircases as we hurried back around the corner we had just rounded, and pulled his hand off of my mouth. I hadn't seen anything, but I could hear faint voices and footsteps echoing from below and growing louder.

The Phantom pushed me quickly into an alcove, holding up an authoritative hand in command that I was to stay. He went back around the corner.

I glared after him, annoyed that he thought I was one of those people incapable of self-defense, and crept quietly out of the alcove.

Peering stealthily around the corner, I saw a group of dangerous-looking men below on the farthest staircase, climbing up towards my hiding place.

The Phantom was nowhere in sight.

At the head of the group was Luke, his light blue eyes intent as he hurried up the stairs, one hand on the hilt of the sword he often carried around the Opera. I had thought till now that it was just for show, but it was clear that he considered it a weapon from how his fingers gripped the hilt.

The four men behind him were talking loudly, grabbing occasionally for the railings when they stumbled. One was singing a lewd song, filling in the words he didn't know with off-key humming.

Garmin turned abruptly and hit the offender hard in the face with the back of his hand. The man staggered back and nearly fell, holding his nose in pain, and glared over his fist at Luke, who ignored him.

"Stop singing! The rest of you, shut up! When we get to the writer's room, you'll do what we agreed to. Afterward, I'll come in, pretend to knock you around; when I kick you out, leave."

He had stopped above them, staring down like a king above his subjects.

"Why are we talking to her?" complained a tall brown-haired lout, scratching at his chest absentmindedly. "I thought we were going to go to the tavern." His voice was one of those nasty nasal ones that irritated you even after it finished speaking. I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

"After you do this little task, then you can go celebrate, John." Garmin looked around one more time at his group of ruffians, surveying them with a calculated air. He was apparently pleased with what he saw, for he continued, "So, you kick in the door and scare her – but don't try anything – and then I'll come in, toss you around, and make you all leave. I'll bring you your pay tomorrow. Got it?"

"Yes," they grumbled in faulty unison, continuing up the stairs.

I drew back into the shadows, my heart pounding. As their boots clumped noisily against the stones, I felt frantically for my knife.

It was gone.


	8. Chapter 8: Amaryllis

_Hello people! I know I left you with a cliffhanger last time, so here's the rest of the chapter! Oh, and to all the people who reviewed: Thank you so much! Keep it up!_

_I know this section is a little long, and I apologize, but there was really no good place to end, so... without further ado, here's the continuation:  
><em>

* * *

><p>Stretching down for the second, I found that it was gone too. I reached up and realized that the missing objects also included my hairpins. Inhaling in exasperation, I silently cursed the Phantom for stealing all of my weapons.<p>

There was an unexpected outbreak of furious noises from my right, cursing and shouting and muffled screams.

"Who was-"

"Luke! Look!"

"Stop! What are-"

"Noo!"

I rushed to the corner, and peered carefully around the edge of the wall.

Three of the men were stretched across the steps, their eyes shut in the heavy sleep of unconsciousness, their hastily drawn weapons scattered uselessly around them.

Luke and two other men were still standing. The second unnamed thug was sneaking away into the shadows, clearly intent on leaving, but Luke was on the second staircase, as if he had leaped wildly upwards, a drawn sword clutched in both hands and raised in tension. He faced the unfolding scene below in indecision. It seemed that he needed his men, but he was clearly unsure if he wanted to face the Phantom or flee.

The man Luke had called John was backed against the wall of the third staircase, two knives in his hands, with the stone-faced Phantom blocking his escape. The masked man was weaponless and terrifying in his wrath. John threw a knife – which missed – he whimpered, took a better grip on the second, and cried out suddenly as the Phantom blurred towards him, dodged the second knife and reached for his throat.

John collapsed in a limp heap on the floor, unconscious, and the Phantom turned his hostile, eerie gaze to Luke, moving lithely to the landing in front of Luke's staircase. The other thug had vanished.

"Drop your sword, Garmin. I'm unarmed." The Phantom spread his arms mockingly wide, head tilted upwards towards Luke's ashen face.

Luke hesitated, gripped his sword tighter, pointed it tremblingly towards the Phantom's mask, and froze, unresolved, as he met those cold, dead eyes.

The muscles in his back tensed; a shudder rippled down his slight blond-haired frame, and the sword dropped from his fingers, ringing its way metallically down to the final landing. "Don't hurt me. Please."

He backed slowly up the stairs, his eyes on the dark man before him.

The Phantom stepped after him, hands loose at his sides, boots noiseless on the stones. "I'll let you off this time, Garmin," he said, voice cool. "If I ever see you talking to the writer again, you die. Do you understand?"

"I uh – understand," he stammered out, and one hand reached to the back of his breeches, drawing out something slim and silver.

As he threw the long knife, I sprinted for the stairs, trying to get breath enough to shout, heading straight for Luke, but even as I moved, someone caught my shoulder and wrenched hard, pulling me back. I had only reached the beginning of the top staircase, and neither the Phantom nor Luke had looked up at me.

* * *

><p>I gasped and tried to spin around, attempting to get to Luke and stop him, but the man behind me slammed me into the wall, knocking my head against the stones. Stars erupted around in my vision; I closed my eyes in pain, feeling nauseous, and managed to thrust my knee into his stomach, hard.<p>

The thug released my shoulder as he gagged, and I brought my elbow up, jabbing it into his windpipe. He collapsed onto my feet with a gurgle of lost breath.

I opened my eyes and kicked at him, pushing his dead weight off my feet. He appeared to be unconscious, but I wasn't sure, so I snapped his head back with a swipe of my heel. Breathing hard, I staggered a few stairs down and tried not to faint, as there were tiny black spots starting to fill up my vision. The thug had smacked my head into the wall very hard.

I swallowed thickly and put my head between my knees.

From below came the sound of quiet footsteps. I looked up, winced at the pain, and saw that the Phantom was busily pushing the last of the thugs out of the way of the stairs.

"Luke?" I asked, weakly.

The Phantom was disheveled and his breathing was short and quick. A muscle twitched in his jaw; there was a red handprint stamped across his cheek. He glanced up at me, frowned, and said, "He's unconscious."

I nodded, winced again, and stopped nodding. "Did he see me?"

"No." The Phantom slid a knife into his boot and came up the last of the stairs towards me.

"You're injured," he said.

"I'm fine," I said, lying through my teeth. "Just a bump."

Then I remembered why I hadn't been able to defend myself sufficiently enough to avoid injury. "What did you _do_ with my weapons?"

"I took them when I cleaned out your cut. I had to make sure you wouldn't have the upper hand if you attacked me." He had circled around and stopped behind me. I shifted around to look at him.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking your head."

His face was clear of blemish, grime or cuts; his clothing still pristine.

_How insufferable_, I thought. I knew I had dirt and dust all over me. Then I shrugged inwardly, feeling stupid. Now was not the time to harbor childish annoyances.

He probed gently at my scalp; I winced and reached up to stop him.

"I'm fine," I said, more curtly than I had intended to sound. "You're not a doctor."

He had let go when I'd brushed his fingers with mine. "I do know about doctoring, though." He sat back on his heels and handed me a handkerchief.

I took the proffered cloth, swiping at my face; there was dirt on my nose. "Why would I attack you? And how did you get them? Cleaning out my scrape only took a few seconds."

"You closed your eyes," he explained. "The knife at your waist was easy to grab, the hairpins, the same. When you tripped the first time I took the knife from your leg."

"Give them back," I demanded, disregarding politeness. He had, so why shouldn't I?

He handed my things over, withdrawing them from folds of his shirt and out of his boots.

"I have to admit that your skill as a pickpocket is impressive, despite its obviously criminal nature," I said, sliding the knives back into their sheaths, "but don't take my weapons again."

I dropped the hairpins into a pocket. It would not do to jab them into my throbbing, tender scalp.

"Thank you, and I won't," he said, clearly amused. His eyes swept over me again. "Are you sure you are not injured?"

"No," I replied; my head was beginning to feel slightly better. "What time is it?"

He took out a pocket watch. "Ten-thirty."

I nodded, and tried to hand him back his handkerchief.

He shook his head. "You can keep it."

I stuffed it unceremoniously into my pocket, and we headed downstairs, stepping over prone bodies. The Phantom looked as though he wanted to kick Luke as we passed, but he restrained himself, only scuffing a little gray dust onto Luke's shirt with the toe of his boot.

I said, "You know, I think we should skip the visit to your home tonight. I need to go barricade my room."

The Phantom had stopped at the second landing; he was waiting for me to catch up, as I had stopped to pin a few locks of hair back up. "If you want, we can go back."

"Why don't you just show me something interesting that's closer?" I suggested, stopping on the stair above him. "Is there anything like that? I can go to my room later."

I _was_ interested in seeing the rest of the opera, but the real reason I wanted to look around was because I wanted to hear his opinions about the place. He would provide valuable insight for my novel.

"What about the auditorium? Have you seen it?"

"No, I've been busy, and yes, I'd like to see it. Is it as beautiful as they say?"

"More beautiful." His smile was sweet, and I felt something inside me lurch at this unexpected phenomenon.

I smiled politely back, turned around hurriedly and headed up the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9: Lavender

The auditorium was magnificent, lined with crimson curtains and golden statues of angels and fair maidens, the stage curtains deep red. The vaulted ceiling arched high overhead, so far above that it was like the depths of an upside-down sea.

I turned around in circles, trying to take in everything, completely overwhelmed.

The curtains of the stage were swept back gracefully, revealing the stage. A lone dark-haired silhouette stood motionless on its floorboards.

The Phantom had left my side while I was staring. It was he who now stood on the stage, and for a moment I wondered if he had ever wanted to perform as an opera singer. But I dropped the thought quickly, deciding that he wasn't the type to enjoy cheering crowds (or booing ones, for that matter), unless he could do so in perfect anonymity.

I walked slowly down the center aisle, and went up the steps of the dais, my footsteps silent, their usual noise stilled by the thickness of the carpet.

I stepped onto the polished, gleaming stage, and when I reached the Phantom I turned and looked out, eager to see the whole place from the eyes of an actor.

It was glorious. It floored me, the magnificence of it all; the chandelier massive and glowing above, the seats turned towards the stage like curious faces, the balconies stretching above, like wings, and the double doors at the end of each aisle standing open as if for a performance.

"It's wonderful," I breathed, and as he half-turned towards me, I saw that the Phantom's eyes were lit with enthusiasm, as if he was showing off a new toy.

"It is very beautiful," he agreed, but then his expression changed, twisting slightly, going dark. "But it was not always so."

I caught the new, somber thread of the conversation, and felt a surge of confused emotion: tentative sympathy, worry, the familiar ache of fear. I did not want to stay here if he was going to become bad-tempered. "Why don't we go up to the rooftop? It's much cooler up there. This place is hot."

My head ached as I made to move deeper into the wings; I winced and bit my lip, and then cursed myself silently as the Phantom came up beside me.

He had seen my expression change. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," I said. I was not about to be a damsel in distress while he was here.

"Are you sure? That thug handled you roughly."

"I said I was fine." This time I added emphasis to my tone, and he raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

As we passed through the maze of backdrops, I relented, realizing that I was too tired to continue walking around for long, and I did not want to break the uneasy alliance I had formed with the Phantom over a headache, as he would probably become irked if I continued to disregard his wishes. I had to be careful.

"I suppose – I suppose we could go back. For tonight, at least."

"Very well," he said, and turned back around.

When we reached the end of one of the auditorium's aisles, he stopped sharply, as if he had heard something, and looked down at me imperiously. "I will leave you here."

"You're going?" I said, incredulous.

"I have business to attend to."

"Wait." I held up a hand to stop him. "Are you speaking of Luke? What are you going to do?"

"I am not speaking of Garmin; he is probably on his way to the tavern as I speak. I have other things to do; goodnight, mademoiselle."

His eyes were dark again; he did not appear to want an answer, but I spoke anyways.

"Thank you," I said. "If you're free again tomorrow we can –"

"Go underground," he interrupted, a faint smile briefly crossing his face. "Yes. I –" He hesitated, and then tried again. "I believe Garmin and his men will not wake for some time, so you can put off barricading your doors for a while."

"Very well," I said, careful not to show the immensity of my gratitude. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle."

He turned and disappeared out the door. I waited for another minute, looking around at the auditorium, breathing in the very air where more than a thousand operas had been performed, drinking in the sight of the sea of motionless seats and the glittering stage, and I sighed quietly as I remembered the opera I had to write. I had no idea where to begin.

But as I turned to walk through the doors, I felt a heady surge of confidence. My interviews with the Phantom were going very well indeed. It wouldn't be much longer before I had gathered enough information to write my book's ending.

* * *

><p>I slept well that night; although I briefly wondered if Luke planned to break into my room, I decided that it was unlikely. From what the Phantom had said, Luke had taken quite a beating. I doubted that he would drag himself all the way up to my room to bother me.<p>

However, I was still curious about exactly _why _Luke would plan such an elaborate charade. Did he really find me that attractive? It must be my money. I was still turning these thoughts over in my head the next morning, as I stood in front of my mirror and tried to pin up my hair. I was missing a hairpin or two, and I figured the Phantom had probably lost them in his voluminous pockets.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door: the maid, with my breakfast. I opened it and let her in.

She smiled pleasantly at me and curtsied; I smiled back. "Good morning, Charmine. Thank you for the tray."

"You're welcome, mademoiselle," she said, curtsied again, and quickly let herself out.

The maids knew that if they stayed in my room for more than twenty seconds, they would be quizzed for information on the Phantom, and as most of them had already told me the same stories over and over, they did not want to linger for long at all. I shrugged and picked up the newspaper on top of the tray, and began to eat my toast.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, I hailed a carriage outside of the Opera House and was about to get in when Luke appeared (his hair was windblown, as if he had been running to catch up) and caught my arm.<p>

"Where are you going?" he asked, rather impolitely. He was out of breath, but he still managed a beguiling grin. His vivid blue eyes were overbright, almost feverish in their intensity.

I disengaged myself from him, ignoring his attempts to charm me. "Out of town, Luke. I'll be back in a few hours. No, you cannot come with me, it is personal business. I will see you later. Goodbye."

And with that, I stepped into the carriage, shut the door behind me, and rapped on the window to alert the driver. The carriage took off, and the last I saw of Luke was his disappointed face, disappearing swiftly in the back window. I shut the curtains with a snap.

* * *

><p>The cemetery was dark and dreary this time of year. Though it was spring, the sunlight had no chance of breaking through the thickly clustered trees, which loomed above each tombstone like silent sentinels; and the once-bright flowers around the graves were mostly dead, almost grey in the dim light. I held my skirts up with one hand and clutched my bag with the other, making my way quietly through the graves, following the small cobblestone path and reading the fading names on the tombstones as I passed.<p>

I felt some trepidation at entering this sacred place without a companion; I had never gone to a cemetery alone before. The last funeral I had attended had been that of my grandfather, and my entire family had come with me to his grave. It was his death that I dwelt upon now, his – and another's.

When I reached the grave I had come to see I stopped. I stood in silence before the tombstone, reading the inscription with suddenly blurry eyes.

**Claire L. Monett**

**1841 – 1861**

_**A loving wife and dear companion. She will be missed.**_

Her husband had used marble for her gravestone; it shone like white glass in the darkness of the hushed cemetery. I bent down and placed a bouquet of lilies on her grave, swiping at my eyes with the back of my hand. _She will be missed_, I thought. It was not enough, but it would do for now; and I turned to go.


	10. Chapter 10: Laurestine

_I realize this chapter is long - sorry again! Oh, and thanks for the continued reviews. Please tell me what you think of this chapter! I need advice! Thank you, again, for reading!_

* * *

><p>On my way home from the cemetery, I stopped by the bakery and picked up some pastries. Opera food, while tasty in its own fashion, was beginning to bore me. I ate a cinnamon roll while in the carriage, and the driver scowled at me when I stepped out. He knew I had eaten something because I was bearing its smelly remains in a little bag marked <em>La Boulangerie<em>, and swiping icing off my nose with a handkerchief.

"Something wrong?" I asked, taken aback by his unpleasant look.

"You've left it smelling like food," he growled. "My other customers won't be pleased."

"I'm sorry," I said, "but if you want me to pay you extra for the smell, you're mistaken. I'm sure many other people have eaten in your carriage before."

For my troubles I got another scowl and a badly tipped hat. I shoved his money into his hand and hurried into the Opera House.

* * *

><p>The doorman took my cloak from me with a stiff bow and a sour sort of smile. He did not like me either; he had tried to make me tip him the first time he'd stuck my cloak on a peg, and after I'd refused he'd acquired nearly the same expression as the coachman. No one else had ever tipped him either, I had noticed, so I knew he wasn't supposed to be. I had guessed that he had thought he could dupe me because I had been new.<p>

But I considered myself immune to bad tempers; most could be ignored, and those that could not be (such as Luke's, who was coming down the staircase to the lobby at that moment) could be managed.

Mostly.

"I trust you had a nice day out," said he, with a cool smile and a flash of glittering blue eyes.

He was dressed to the nines in an expensive black suit and shoes to match. I wondered (only briefly) where he was going, and smiled politely back.

"Very nice. And now I will be going to my room to write. You _do_ want an opera from me, don't you?"

"No," said Luke, who had snatched my arm as soon as he drew level with me. "I believe you and I are going out for lunch. Or lunch _and_ dinner. At least one, I think."

I neatly tipped the remains of my roll (which was now mostly crumbs and sticky cinnamon liquid) all over his polished black shoes, and people nearby began to whisper and snicker and stare.

"Oh, Luke, I am _so_ sorry," I said, and as he let go of my arm, his expression simultaneously startled and disgusted, I slipped past him and up the stairs. "If they're ruined, send me the bill!"

Luke was left in the center of the lobby in a rather sticky situation. As I went through the door at the top of the staircase, I allowed myself one last, prideful glance back. There were two maids and the doorman scurrying around Luke, attempting to wipe the icing off his shoes, and his pale face had begun to turn a nasty shade of scarlet-puce. I let the door close behind me and went down the corridor towards the next staircase, humming under my breath and feeling rather smug.

* * *

><p>I had just passed the kitchens when the candles in the corridor went out. The two girls that had been chattering in the corner a few feet away, gasped and hurried in the opposite direction, disappearing around the corner with a swish of their skirts.<p>

I stopped, looking around in the near darkness, and reached for my knife. I knew who it probably was, but I was still unsure about how dangerous the Phantom was, and it was best to have a weapon close to hand, just in case.

"It would be unwise to use that," said a very familiar voice next to my ear.

Instead of dropping my hand, I drew the knife and spun it between my fingers. "Light the candles again, won't you? What are you doing anyways?"

"Why don't we talk somewhere more private?" asked the voice, or, rather, _demanded_ the voice, because in the next instant a strong hand had found my upper arm and pulled me towards the opposite wall.

I kicked out, the voice swore, and I staggered back, free and furious, sheathing my knife before I dropped it.

"You're a brute!" I spat, rubbing my sore arm. "Don't touch me!"

Twenty yards away, a door opened, letting a square of light stream into the dark corridor, and another voice said, "Is someone there? Oh – what happened to the candles?"

The figure in the doorway withdrew and called for someone inside, and the Phantom cursed again, much quieter, and took a step towards me. I knew he had moved because I felt the air stir around me. I shot a nasty glare in his direction and took off up the corridor.

I was quick, I knew that, but I didn't know how quick the Phantom was, and I was afraid that he would catch up before I got too far.

But my fears were unfounded: I rounded the corner into a candlelit corridor and stood there for a minute, breathing hard. A few stagehands, who had been leaning against the wall, smoking, shot me wary glances (yes, everyone in the Opera knew who I was by now) and left, dropping their cigar butts on the stones.

I waited for a moment, still trying to breathe normally, and fumed. I was not accustomed to manhandling, nor did I plan to become so. The Phantom, though he considered himself above the niceties of propriety and etiquette, would not treat me like a beast.

* * *

><p>When he appeared at the end of the corridor, bearing himself like some sort of prince, I scowled at him and waited tensely, tapping my foot.<p>

He took his time, finally stopping a few feet away, and stared at me.

I stared back. "I have work to do. Spit out what you want and then go away."

"I don't take orders," he said, his voice dangerously quiet, "and I don't listen to them, either-"

"Well," I snarled, cutting him off, "you should have thought of that before you accosted me! I do not appreciate being pushed around, _Phantom_. Your behavior was atrocious. If you wish me to honor my side of the agreement we've struck, you had better treat me like a lady, for that is what I _am_."

He had only watched me quietly throughout my speech, dark head tilted as though I was an odd sort of insect, and now he opened his mouth and said: "I apologize."

Although I had prepared myself for a rebuttal, I had not prepared for this, and so instead of instantly spitting out my next angry words, I had to stop and think.

"I suppose you are forgiven," I said, measuring my words carefully. "Just don't do that _ever_ again, or I _will_ stab you."

"Very well," he said, and was about to say more (probably most of it was sarcastic, as his tone had begun to shift again) when we both heard footsteps.

I half expected him to grab me, but he simply melted into the wall (actually, it slid open and he vanished, but it looked as though he had faded into it, he had moved so fast) and so I just stood there, staring at the empty wall, and two of the ballet girls went past and laughed at my frozen posture.

They went away down the corridor, and I frowned inimically and went in the opposite direction.

* * *

><p><em>That <em>had been a singularly unproductive meeting. I didn't even know why he had appeared in the first place. What if what he had wanted to tell me was urgent? What if it was about Luke?

I climbed the stairs to my floor and went into my room, still frowning and still curious. Apparently, that had been the Phantom's intention, for when I sat down on my bed something rustled. I sat up and looked around.

It was only a piece of paper fluttering down from the ceiling. I caught it before it wafted to the floor, and looked up at the ceiling for a hole or a slit or some way to drop things out of it, but there was nothing there, only smooth white plaster, so I turned my attention to the paper.

_Mademoiselle_, the note began,

_I considered speaking to you in person again, but you seem to be in a temper. I've written my words down, instead, to spare you from drawing that knife of yours and doing something you'd regret. _

_I found this in Garmin's office. I suggest you handle it carefully, as it seems to be fragile._

_O.G., or, as you prefer to call me, _

_Phantom._

I unwrapped the tiny package attached to the note (it was about the size of a stamp, only thicker) and stared at the engagement ring that fell out into my palm. It was set with a large sapphire, my least favorite stone, and the metal was of white gold.

The inscription inside was my name.

_Of course,_ I thought, a little exasperated, a little amused, but mostly nonplussed. _The Phantom's gone and stolen the engagement ring that Luke planned to present me with__. What on earth am I going to do with it?_


	11. Chapter 11: Purple Lilac

_Katelienne._

_Katelienne._

_Katelienne, you were right about him. _

_I am so sorry._

_Come quickly, before it is too late._

_Katelienne, Katelienne, I am so sorry._

* * *

><p>I sat up in bed with a start, pressing my hands to my hot face, feeling nauseous, and tried to push away the images of the nightmare, but failing. I pushed the covers off and hurried over to the balcony door, swinging it open and stepping out into the cool night air.<p>

* * *

><p>It took a long time for the nightmare's seeping tendrils of fear and grief to leave me; but when it had finally gone I felt better. The stars were bright in the dark sky, and I gazed up at them, looking for Orion. It had always been my favorite constellation, and tonight the warrior was shining like he was made of fiery diamonds. I took a deep breath of the night air and closed my eyes, tipping my face up towards the sky.<p>

I did not hear the balcony door open, and when the Phantom spoke behind me I jumped, and nearly broke my wrist by smashing it into the railing as I went for my knife, which wasn't even there. I had left it on my bedside table.

"Pleasant evening, isn't it?"

"What are you doing on my balcony?" I snapped, turning around and cradling my hurt wrist with my left hand, and then blushing as I realized I had forgotten my robe. Then I scowled.

"Visiting," he said, politely, and stepped up next to me to look down over the city. "Why are you awake so late?"

"Bad dreams," I said, and then wished I hadn't told him the truth. He was going to mock me; I was sure of it. I pushed the balcony door open, retrieved my robe, and donned it, wrapping the ties around my waist in a firm knot.

"I'm sorry," he said, and turned his head to look at me through the doorway. "What about?"

"Nothing of import," I said, and remembered his note. "Now that you're here, I'd like you to explain about that ring."

"Do I really need to?" he asked, wrapping his fingers around the railing and pulling experimentally. The wood creaked in indignation.

"Leave my balcony alone," I said. "Yes, you do. And you need to return it. I can't have stolen goods in my room."

"Garmin doesn't even know it's missing," said the Phantom, with a prideful air. "He's a stupid one."

"Not that stupid," I said. "Nobody's _that_ stupid. He'll figure it out soon; I'm sure he will. Either you return it or _you_ hold onto it. I don't want it."

"I'll take it then," he said, coming into my room and looming over me. He was at least a foot taller than I was.

I did not like being loomed over. I turned my back on him and went to my jewelry box and got the ring out. "Here."

Instead of pocketing it, as I had assumed he would, he went out the balcony door and tossed it into the night.

"What are you _doing_?" I cried, hurrying to the railing and peering down into the narrow streets below, seeing absolutely no sign of the ring, just as I'd thought I would. "That was utterly uncalled for!"

"Garmin is a murderous wretch," said the Phantom carelessly. "I doubt you would have accepted it anyways."

"Of course not," I snapped. "But it would have been more prudent to simply return it. When he finds out it's missing he'll turn the whole Opera House upside down, and later, after he's given up, he'll just go out and buy a new one. Either way, he's going to be more annoying than usual, thanks to you."

"Perhaps," said the Phantom, "staying up too late addles your brains. What you just said makes no sense. When Garmin discovers that his ring is gone (and the more harm that comes to him, the better) he'll become confused and worried and bothered. We want that to happen, don't we? Or have you changed your mind?"

I said, "No, I haven't. Have you?"

"No," he said, and looked down at me with a suddenly somber expression. "Why?"

"What?" I said. "What do you mean, why?"

He turned back to the sky. "Generally," he said softly, "most of the bargains I have made do not last very long."

"Well," I said firmly, "mine will. As long as you hold up your side of it. Which reminds me – you haven't."

He grinned; he was in silhouette, but I saw the corner of his lip curl upwards in amusement. "It is too late for that tonight, mademoiselle. You should probably get some rest."

He went past me and put his hand on the balcony door to open it, but paused, and turned back, his expression quizzical.

"Why are you suddenly so keen to turn Garmin in?"

"What?" I said. I hadn't expected him to ask me _that_. I thought he had been about to make a rude comment about my nightwear.

"Well?" he said. "Are you going to answer my question?"

I shifted from foot to foot. "I'm…I'm not sure, I suppose. It's just that you have no reason to hate Luke – well, besides his general attitude of snobbery – so I've come to the conclusion that your claims that he's a murderer may actually have some bearing."

He nodded, slowly, and pushed the door the rest of the way open. "After you."

I went inside and sat down on my bed, but instead of leaving, the Phantom crossed the room towards me and held out a hand.

I stared up at him.

"Your _wrist_," he said, impatiently.

I gave my hand to him, feeling confused, and he turned it over in his fingers, examining my wrist with cool, dark eyes. His hand was warm against my cold skin.

"You're going to have bruises," he said, finally.

"Why do you care?" I asked, withdrawing my hand. "You're the one that surprised me so that I smacked it."

"I take responsibility for my actions, mademoiselle," he said, in return, and he drew out a small container from his left pocket.

"Bruise balm," he said. I reached for it, but he pulled his hand back and said, "Let me."

He was gentle as he applied it to my reddened, tender skin, and his dark-haired head was bent down low, low enough for his breath to brush my forehead in passing.

When he had finished he wrapped a handkerchief around my wrist and let me take it back.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I said, feeling even more nonplussed than ever, and watched him cross the room to my door and let himself out.

* * *

><p>That night, I heard the underground music for the first time: it rose up through the floors of the Opera House and wove its way into my dreams as I slept, and the nightmare that had plagued me for so long did not return. I slept until the sun rose out of the night and brought with it the joy of morning, and the little I remembered of my dreams were scenes of beauty and peace.<p> 


	12. Chapter 12: Lemon Blossom

The next morning, I busied myself with my writing. It would not go well for me if I did not start on the opera soon. But instead of beginning it, I found myself thinking of my novel and my interviews.

I leaned back in my chair and stared at the empty wall, twiddling my pen between my fingers. I had new information regarding the Phantom's relationship with Christine; I had new theories about the "murdered" stagehand; I had a wealth of new ideas and various ways with which to direct my novel's themes, but even as I sat there, going over the Phantom's interview in my head, I wondered if I was really going to write any of it down.

This novel was very important, true, but seeing as no one actually believed in the Phantom, I doubted that anyone would take it seriously. My readers would chalk up my new information about the Phantom to my imagination. The critics would scoff and give me bad reviews; or if they actually read it, they would simply dissect it, pulling it apart piece by piece, fact by fact, theory by theory, and drop its pathetic remains on the floor.

My analogy reminded me of how I had dodged Luke yesterday (the cinnamon roll incident) and I sat up in my chair and reached for a new piece of parchment. I would write him a polite apology, leave it under his door, and hopefully this very informal communication would be enough for him.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, as soon as I began to write it, there was a knock on my door. It was not the maid; I had already eaten.<p>

I briefly considered pretending that I wasn't there, but this struck me as so cowardly that I called, "Who is it?" and went to the door.

"Luke," said Luke, from behind the door. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

"Perhaps," I said. "Did you bring me the bill for your shoes?"

"No," said Luke. His voice was muffled. "I did not; they were not ruined. I'd like to speak to you. Open the door." He paused, and tried again. "If you please, that is."

I did not take well to commands, just as the Phantom had said of himself the day before, but I opened the door anyways.

Luke came in and sat down in my desk chair. He looked tired; there were signs of fatigue in his face, and his speech was a little slurred, but his eyes were alert and he was dressed in clean clothing, so I took this in stride.

"How is your opera coming along?" he demanded. His eyes fell away from me and went roving around the room as if he was looking for something.

I went over to my desk and rearranged my papers, shoving the ones about the Phantom underneath my interview notebooks. I did not want him to get hold of my research.

"Not very well," I said, turning to face him, blocking his view of my desk. "I've been thinking about that, actually. I've never written an opera before, and I've done all this research on them – it's clear that I'm not cut out to be an opera writer."

"Why not?" said Luke, who had picked up one of my pens and begun spinning it around his fingers.

I reached down and took it from him. This was a mistake – he caught hold of my fingers and his eyes fell on my wrist. The bruises from last night had faded, but they were still faintly visible.

I pulled my hand away, and Luke looked up at me.

"Luke," I said, striving to keep my temper, "I do not want to write operas. I'll accept a different job from you instead. Any ideas?"

Luke considered this slowly, leaning back in my chair until the front legs came off the floor.

"You could marry me, instead," he said, and I finally realized that he was drunk.

I stood there for a moment, raised my eyebrows, and said, curtly, "I won't consider your proposal until your head is clear. I would never have let you in if I'd realized you'd been drinking."

"Not that much," said Luke. He had picked up another one of my pens, and was methodically squeezing it between his fingers as if he wanted to snap it in half. His eyes found mine again; he smiled like he had won something.

This and his previous actions irked me so badly that I snatched the pen from him, kicked the chair so that he overbalanced and it tipped over, and strode to the door, flinging it open.

"Get out."

Luke picked himself up off the floor and came towards me, his blue eyes like cold water.

"Are you refusing my proposal?" he asked.

"I don't see a ring," I spat. "And yes, I think I have."

He had been fumbling in his pocket with one hand, as if to pull out a box, but as I spoke, he dropped his hand and focused his wavering gaze on me (it had been roaming around again, this time, on my person).

"What do you know of my ring?"

"Absolutely nothing," I said, firmly. "I wouldn't want it, anyways. Good morning, Luke. I'll see you when you're not drunk and raving."

Luke eyed me, reached up as if to touch my hair, and then drew his hand back. "Good morning," he said, and went out.

I slammed the door after him.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, I ventured forth from my room with my bag, hoping that I would run into Luke's assistant, John Cooper, but not Luke, or the Phantom, who I knew was probably watching my every movement. This thought bothered me so much that I picked up my pace, and made it to the first floor in record time.<p>

I was in luck: Luke's office door was open, and Cooper was sitting in Luke's chair, reading through a voluminous document, his eyes bent to his task. He held a pen in one hand.

"Cooper?" I asked, pausing in the doorway. "Can I come in? I'd like to speak to you privately."

Cooper put down the document and took off his glasses. "Of course," he said. "Just shut the door behind you."

Luke's assistant manager was a good twenty or thirty years older than both I and Luke. His light brown hair was graying at the roots, and he had crows' feet at the corners of his eyes. I had met him on my second day at the Opera; he had kindly offered to give me a tour, and when I had instead taken up his whole time talking about the Phantom, he had graciously allowed me to monopolize his tour with an interview. Every now and then, though, he had broken in to point out various works of art, but we had never reached the auditorium – Luke had appeared and asked that he get back to work.

"I'm sorry to bother you," I said, sitting down in an overstuffed chair in front of the desk, "but I'd like some advice."

"Is it about Luke?" Cooper asked.

I looked at him, surprised. "What? Oh, no. It's about some legal documents. I thought that because you used to be a lawyer, you could help me."

"Oh, sure," Cooper said, grinning. "Sorry about that. It's just – I keep hearing rumors about you two. You'd think you were going to get married in a week or something!"

"I hope not," I said, grimacing. "Cooper, Luke is _really_ not my idea of an ideal spouse. Anyways, here's the document I wanted you to look over." I handed him the sheaf of papers I had taken from my bag.

He put his glasses back on and leaned back in his chair, reading the small print quickly.

When he had finished, he took his glasses off and looked straight at me, his hazel eyes kind, but searching.

"Are you sure this is the final will?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm sure. Is it legitimate?"

"Yes," Cooper said. "There's the signature, the witnesses, everything. But there's no spousal signature."

"I know," I said. "It's still valid, though, right?"

Cooper nodded. "Yes, it's valid. Can I ask you-" he paused "-why you have it?"

"It was sent to me," I said. "I was a close friend. I'm sorry, Cooper, that's all I can tell you."

"I understand," he said, and handed the packet back to me. "Keep this safe – it is the only copy, correct?"

"The only one," I said. "Thank you, Cooper. Good morning."

* * *

><p><em>Sorry about the abrupt ending! I'll update again soon; I'm sure you've all figured out that this is a cliffhanger that needs to be resolved. Don't worry - I'm impatient to keep the story going too. <em>

_Please review!_


	13. Chapter 13: Pink Carnation

_Another long chapter - I apologize once more! Well, except to RedDeathLvr - I know you will be thrilled! (I hope!) So, please review - I still need all the advice I can get!  
><em>

* * *

><p>I spent the rest of the day window shopping – it was a clear day with a light, warm breeze, and the whole of Paris seemed to be on the streets, chatting and buying and selling and eating.<p>

My return to the Opera House came only when the sun set: I was not eager to go inside, away from the merry crowds and the sound of laughter, and I was afraid that Luke would be waiting in the lobby.

* * *

><p>I was right; he was standing in the middle of the tiled floor, talking to Cooper with his usual curt manner: he did not seem to like his assistant manager. Not for the first time, I wondered why he had hired him, but as I wasn't going to ask Cooper, or bring up the topic with Luke, I figured I would probably not ever find out. I handed my cloak to the doorman and kept my eyes on Luke's stiff back.<p>

Cooper had caught sight of me slipping in the door – he was facing the entrance – but Luke did not, as he was facing Cooper. He was speaking loudly, something about wages, so I used his inattention to my advantage and hurried for the back of the lobby, weaving between little groups of people and keeping my head down. I did not want to take the stairs today, Luke would be sure to see me ascending them.

I pushed one of the double doors open and came into the auditorium. The ballet girls were practicing onstage, but instead having of their new teacher, Mademoiselle Martin, with them, Madame Giry was standing in their midst, dressed in all black and leaning on a walking stick.

I stopped walking, surprised, and then blushed as I realized she had seen me: I was not too eager to speak with her again, especially after following our last conversation. She probably thought I was a dunce. But, I reasoned, I _had_ seen the Phantom – she had lied to me, and so I had the upper hand if we meant to spar.

Apparently, Madame Giry shared my opinion. She came down off the stage, waving at the ballet girls to continue, and slowly made her way down my aisle, leaning heavily on her cane for support. Mademoiselle Martin got up from one of the seats and stopped her; she seemed to be asking a question.

Madame Giry answered her and went on. I stood where I was, pretending to be watching the ballet girls' dance, my eyes on their graceful movements.

Madame Giry finally reached me and stopped, her black eyes intent on my face.

"Mademoiselle Laurent," she said.

"Madame Giry," I answered. "It's nice to see you again."

"I doubt you mean that," she scoffed, and sat down on a nearby seat. "Join me, won't you? I'd like to speak to you."

I sat down next to her, and gazed out over the auditorium, fixing my attention on the stage. Mademoiselle Martin was gesticulating to the ballet girls; she executed a move and then stood back, waiting for them to copy her.

Madame Giry laid a hand on my arm, pulling my attention back to her. "You have seen him," she said.

"I – what-" I stopped myself from babbling and tried again. "Madame Giry, you lied to me."

"I know," she said, completely unrepentant. "It was for your own good."

I raised my eyebrows. "I'm not your daughter, Madame. Furthermore, how would lying to me help anything? I came here despite what you said."

"I know," she repeated. "But it was for the best."

"How?" I asked again, but at that moment, Luke came into the auditorium and caught sight of me.

"Katelienne!" he cried. "I've been looking for you all morning."

I got to my feet, and Madame Giry's hand slid off my arm. "I'm sure you have, Luke. I've been out."

"I have someone I'd like you to meet," Luke said, ignoring my jab. "Oh – I see you two have met already!"

He was referring to Madame Giry – her eyes caught mine and we both grimaced at the same moment. I stifled a laugh. Madame Giry was not too keen on Luke either.

"Yes, we've met," I said. "Madame Giry was one of the first people I interviewed."

Luke laughed. "Oh, yes, about that 'Phantom' figure. And what did she tell you? I always thought you had a level head, Madame Giry, but I could have been wrong."

It was a dirty trick, speaking well of Madame Giry – I found myself agreeing with him despite my aversion.

Madame Giry had gotten to her feet. She leaned gracefully against the back of the seat in front of her, and I recognized the traces of a skilled dancer in her manner.

"Luke," she said, smiling, "You are correct as usual. I told Mademoiselle Laurent what I told everyone else – the so-called Phantom is a figure of imagination and nothing else."

Luke grinned at her, and for a moment he almost looked halfway attractive, but then he turned his cool blue eyes on me and I felt slightly nauseous.

"I had better go," I said, starting for the aisle. "I promised myself I'd actually write today."

Luke did not try to stop me; it was clear that he intended to impress Madame Giry, and grabbing the arm of his hired writer would cause his supposedly good image to crumble. He smiled instead and let me go past him.

Madame Giry raised a hand to me in farewell and turned back towards the stage. Luke turned around himself, but not before he had mouthed "Meet me in my office at nine."

I rolled my eyes unbecomingly (after he had turned away) and went out, wishing that I had been able to watch more of the ballet.

* * *

><p>When I got to my room I went out onto my balcony and looked up the little staircase that led to the roof.<p>

Then I went back instead, got my cloak, shut the balcony door, locked it, and went up the stairs, feeling rather jaunty and devil-may-care.

I would meet Luke in his office, but I would not linger. I would see what he had to say, make my decision about whatever the topic was, and leave. I would not see the Phantom tonight, either. I would write some more of my novel and pick flowers in the garden and read a book. I would have a pleasant evening, despite everything, and I would sleep well tonight.

I pushed the garden gate open and locked it behind me, hurrying through the grass and the trees to the bench in front of the fountain. This, along with the weeping willow trees, was my favorite place to sit and think while on the roof.

As soon as I reached the fountain, I realized that the bench was occupied. Someone was sitting there, obscured by two large stone Cupids and one mermaid with water coming out of her mouth. I was hidden by the fountain also; I craned my neck to see who it was.

Almost immediately I ruled out the possibility that it was Luke: his hair would have been shining like a beacon in the moonlight; and a second later, I ruled out the Phantom. This person was not wearing a mask. In fact, this person was not even a man.

I stepped around the fountain and confronted Madame Giry. "Why are you in here?"

She looked up; it was her cane that had given her away – it was leaning against the bench. "There you are," she said. "_He_ said that you might be here."

I did not try to even guess who she meant. "The _Phantom_, you mean," I said. "How did he know?"

"I'm not talking about _him_," said Madame Giry impatiently. "I'm talking about _Luke_. He said that you would be up here."

"Oh, _him_. Of course it was _him_," I said, feeling flustered, and abruptly annoyed. "Do you mind telling me why you're here?"

"I've come to give you some advice," she said.

"About what?" I said. "And couldn't you have told me in the auditorium?"

"My, you can be stupid," she said, shooting me an inimical glance. "No wonder Luke's got his eye on you."

"Who _cares_ about _Luke_," I snapped. "Tell me what you've come to say, and then, please leave. You shouldn't even be in here anyways."

"Mademoiselle," she said, taking a deep breath, "I've lived in the Opera House longer than you've been alive. Please drop that prissy tone and sit down and stop talking and I'll tell you."

There was no other way to make her happy, so I sat down and pressed my lips together and looked at her expectantly.

"When you first came digging around for answers, I lied to you to save your skin. Luke Garmin, as you've probably guessed, is not the nicest man around, and when he gets his eye on a pretty girl, he goes for her with all his heart. You're pretty – in your own fashion – and so I attempted to dissuade you. The other reason I lied was because the Phantom, while he is perfectly able to take care of himself, does not take well to nosy people, and frequently frightens them off. I decided to spare you all this pain and so I lied."

"And the advice part?" I asked.

"We're not having an interview, Mademoiselle Laurent, so you can stop asking questions."

I simply looked at her. It had been a trying evening.

"All right, then, the advice. Stay away from Luke, gather your information, and leave. Write your novel elsewhere. Publish it far away from the Opera House, and don't come back."

"Thank you," I said, stiffly, "for your advice, but my reasons for being here are far more than just a novel. And I do not intend to leave until I've finished what I came to do."

Madame Giry stared hard at me. "What other reasons can you possibly have to stay?"

I rose. "Goodnight, Madame."

* * *

><p>It took a bit more persuasion and a lot more nagging, but she finally left the garden and disappeared across the rooftop, and I locked the gate and went back to my bench. <em>I should have kept my mouth shut<em>, I thought. _Now she is never going to leave, and everything's going to be so much more difficult. How much longer am I going to have to stay?_


	14. Chapter 14: Thornapple Blossom

_This is a **very **long one - I don't blame you if you wait a while to read the whole thing. I'm sorry! Once again, there was really no good place to end it... I guess you'll just have to suffer... :)_

* * *

><p>I left the garden around eight forty-five; I would go meet Luke in his office, but first I wanted to pick up a few things from my room.<p>

I picked up my bag and dropped my notebook and pens into it, took the knife from my desk, and was about to leave my cloak on my bed when I thought better of it and stuffed it into my bag.

* * *

><p>The corridor outside was bright with candles, empty, and very quiet. I took a cautious step out of my room and shut the door silently behind me, locking it quickly and slinging my bag onto my shoulder. The hilt of my knife pressed into my ribs, and its pressure made me feel a little braver.<p>

I was not afraid of the Phantom; only of him surprising me by dropping out of the ceiling or something equally startling, and so it took some effort to walk down the corridor, and later, to descend the stairs.

The Opera House was built a little off-kilter – I had to cross another corridor to get to the staircase between the first and second floor, something I did with no little amount of stress, as there was suddenly a whole lot of people around.

The ballet girls were twirling and leaping up and down the corridor; the stagehands were flirting and drinking and smoking _everywhere_, and the entire Opera House population appeared to be on this one single floor. I hurried through the lot of them, watching my steps – nearly every breath I took was filled with smoke, and I doubted that I would make it through the crush of bodies without suffocating.

At last I made it to the staircase and dashed down the stairs. I only had a few minutes to spare, and I was beginning to worry that the Phantom would appear and make me late to my meeting with Luke.

* * *

><p>But I could see the light from Luke's office at the end of the corridor. I went a few more yards, and still a few more, trying to breathe normally, and then I heard voices and I stopped.<p>

They were coming from Luke's office.

"_Do you ever do anything useful?_" Luke was snarling at someone. "Anything at all? Come on, man, answer me and pull yourself together! Must I drag _everything_ out of you?"

A low voice answered. It sounded like Cooper's, but I was not completely sure. I slipped into a nearby room and left the door ajar to listen. It would not do if I was caught eavesdropping on Luke's conversation.

Luke stopped shouting for a moment. Then he began again, but he was basically repeating himself, so I stopped listening as hard and focused on the hand that had suddenly gripped my shoulder.

* * *

><p>I turned around, fumbling for my knife.<p>

"What are you doing in here?" Cooper hissed.

I gasped and let my knife fall back into my bag. "Cooper!"

Then I put my hand over my mouth and listened. Yes, Luke was still shouting. He hadn't heard anything.

"I'm eavesdropping," I said, speaking this time in a whisper. "You?"

"Also eavesdropping," said Cooper, just as quietly, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I couldn't resist; Luke never leaves his door open like this."

"Who's he talking to?" I asked, hopefully.

"Who knows," said Cooper. "I'm simply glad it's not me."

We both turned our attention back to Luke's shouting. He was still repeating himself.

"How long has that been going on?"

Cooper shook his head. "I don't know; I only got here a few moments ago. I was supposed to drop some papers off at his office."

"I was supposed to go talk to him," I said. "What – eh – what sort of papers?"

"Confidential," said Cooper. "But if you really want to know, it's something to do with his estate. He seems to be…" he leaned in and spoke even more quietly "…losing money."

"How?" I said, taken aback. "He's the manager at the Palias Garnier, for heaven's sake!"

"True, true," Cooper agreed, "but he's losing it somehow. I'm betting on gambling or something like that."

"Hmm," I said. We listened for another moment to Luke's shouting.

After a minute or two, Cooper said, "It seems to be dying down. I'd better go deliver these." He held up the papers, and cautiously ventured into the corridor.

I followed him out. "I'll go with you."

"No, no, that might seem suspicious."

I scoffed at this completely ridiculous notion. "I doubt that, Cooper. We're just two friends walking down the corridor to the same office! Luke's too enraged to notice anything, I'd bet. He'll never find out that you told me about those papers; you know I don't gossip."

Cooper looked down at me, realized that I was entirely serious, and shrugged. "All right."

* * *

><p>When we entered Luke's office, the atmosphere was noticeably sullen. The manager was standing in front of a massive portrait of some prima diva, smoking his cigar and glaring at the intricate beadwork on the painted lady's skirts.<p>

"What do you want?" he said, without turning around.

Cooper and I exchanged meaningful glances; I bit my lip before I could laugh.

"I've brought the papers you wanted," Cooper said, dropping them onto the desk. Luke turned around, saw Cooper, then me, and frowned.

"Thank you, Cooper," he said curtly. "Good evening."

Cooper nodded, bowed to me, and went out. He had left the door open; Luke went past me and shut it. Then he turned the key in the lock.

I remained standing, thankful that I had brought my knife. I did not trust Luke any more nowadays than I did the Phantom, and the locking of the door aroused my suspicions.

Luke sat down behind his desk, smashed his cigar into the ashtray, pulled Cooper's papers towards him, quickly leafed through them, and locked them away in his desk. He looked up at me, his eyes coolly examining my face.

"Take a seat, won't you," he said. It was not a question.

I sat down across from him and arranged my bag on my lap. "Why did you wish to see me, Luke?"

"You said you did not want to be the new opera writer," Luke said, taking a piece of parchment from his top desk drawer and writing something on it. When I did not answer (did his statement really need one?) he glanced up from his paper.

"Well?"

"I thought I made myself quite clear, Luke," I said, "unless you were so addled by drink that your recollection of my answer was muddled."

"I remember it, all right," said Luke, and went back to his scribbling. "I'd like to offer you a different post."

I frowned and shook my head although he wasn't looking at me. "No, I'd rather just remain as writer. I have no interest in another job."

"This one is good," Luke said, and continued to scribble. "Here."

He reached into his desk, took out a sort of letter, and pushed it across the desk to me; I picked it up and turned it around.

* * *

><p>It was a message, written thus:<p>

_Garmin:_

_You've neglected to deliver my payment for the last month. I will not remind you again._

_Beware,_

_O.G._

"Charming, isn't it?" said Luke, who was still scribbling.

I turned the note around, saw the telltale red skull, and hastily dropped it on the desk, as if it had bitten me.

"No," I said, slowly. I didn't know what Luke was getting at.

"It strikes me as odd, that note," Luke said. "You know, ever since you've gotten here, I've begun receiving these notes. I never had before. You wouldn't know why, would you?"

"Um, no," I said, still confused. Did he actually believe the Phantom was real? I had thought he was a firm unbeliever.

"Really," said Luke. He wrote more on his paper. "I happen to believe that you, Katelienne, may have something to do with this. Is it a practical joke?"

"What?" I said. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Luke looked up then, stared fixedly at me as though I was a strange new phenomenon. His blue eyes were bloodshot, I noticed, with some trepidation.

"Sometimes," he said, slowly, "some people think it is _funny_ to leave these notes lying about. Anyone can find a seal like this one. If I wasn't so sure, I would suspect you."

"You think I wrote that note and put it in your office?" I said, my voice rising shrilly in indignation. "You think I would stoop to something like that to bother you? You actually think this, Luke? You are – you are _completely_ mistaken."

I had risen to my feet, unconsciously clutching my bag to my chest.

Luke got up. I took a step back. I had forgotten how tall he was.

He leaned towards me, planting his hands on the desk, and spoke very, very softly.

"Think, Katelienne. Think hard. You arrived, asked stupid questions about the Phantom. Then, suddenly, these notes started showing up on my desk. What am I _supposed_ to think?"

"You're supposed to think something logical!" I said. "Clearly, you are out of your mind! I would never do anything like that! Never! You must think I am an idiot!"

I had chosen the wrong words: Luke took a deep breath and let it out between his teeth. "I would not use such a tone with me, Katelienne."

"I don't care what you want," I said. "I don't care at all. I'm leaving," and I made for the door.

Luke came around the side of the desk, lithely, terrifyingly, like an enraged lion, and I staggered backwards, startled, as he snatched for my shoulders and missed.

He caught hold of my injured wrist instead: I drew my breath in with a gasp of pain and kicked his ankle hard.

This did not seem to faze him; he only took a breath and let it out and did not let go of my wrist. I could feel the bones grinding together. I pulled my knife; Luke swore and raised a hand, and just as quickly, he lowered it.

He seemed to be trying to regain his lost temper. He let go of my wrist and backed off to the opposite side of the room, now blocking the door and my escape.

I stayed where I was, alternating between glaring at him and figuring out what to say next.

There were really no words. "Whatever friendship we may have had, Luke," I said, my voice shaking, "you have just lost it. I will not make any more trips to your office; I will not stay in the Opera House. You are nothing but a -"

But whatever I had planned to say was lost in a monstrous rush of sound: someone was speaking very loudly, and everything in the room began to tremble with the force of the sound waves. The scotch glasses on the desk were in danger of dropping to the floor and shattering.

I dropped my knife and put my hands over my ears, but I could still hear every word as clearly as if I had not. Luke was cowering against the door, his arms over his head.

"_I told you, Garmin, if you lose the writer, you lose your position. Cross me again and you will regret it most dearly."_

The last reverberations died away slowly; _dearly, dearly, dearly _was all I could hear for a moment.

Luke straightened up, shaking all over, and twisted the key in the lock. It clicked open.

"Get out," he whispered, hoarsely. "Get _out_."

I stooped to pick up my knife, swept past him and into the corridor, and hurried back towards my room. My ears were ringing, and I had a feeling that they would do so all night.

* * *

><p><em>P.S. I love reviews! Of any kind! Send them to me, please!<em>


	15. Chapter 15: Eglantine Rose

_Whoops! This is a short chapter! _

_Okay, I'm sure you've all noticed how quickly I've been updating - please don't hate me if I don't do so all the time. I may slow down a bit next week._

_- review! And thank you to all those who did! _

_Enjoy reading - this is the last one for tonight!_

* * *

><p>I stumbled down the corridor towards my room, feeling more and more exhausted by the second, and hefted my bag into a more secure position on my shoulder, wishing sadly that I hadn't put so many things inside of it.<p>

I reached for my key, put it in the lock, and discovered that I did not need it.

My door was unlocked.

A wave of adrenaline swept up my body, focusing my vision, and I pushed the door open with a clear, cold sense that something was very wrong.

I probably wouldn't have been able to defend myself if there had been someone dangerous in my room – my nerves were tight with fatigue and my head ached as though someone was boring a hole into my skull with a metal spoon – so it was lucky that it was only the Phantom, wearing dark breeches and a white shirt and propped up against my desk chair with an air that proclaimed, "I own this room and everything in it."

I stepped the rest of the way inside and shut the door behind me, leaning warily against it and watching the Phantom, waiting for him to make the first move.

I felt impossibly drained.

* * *

><p>The Phantom put down one of my interview notebooks and looked at me.<p>

"Long night?" he asked, cheerily, and I fought the irrational, very stupid urge to slap him.

"Get out of my room," I said, and dropped my bag on the floor. The knife fell out and thumped onto the carpet, and the Phantom crossed the room to pick it up before I could even begin to lean down.

"We need to talk," he said, but I cut him off by taking the knife out of his hand, and he let go hastily, as it was unsheathed.

"You made a bargain with Luke?" I asked, going over to my desk and putting the knife down with a clunk on the wood.

"Yes," said the Phantom, "but that was not what I wanted to talk about-"

"About me?" I asked, staring at the interview notebook that he had been reading. It was the one with my first interviews, including Madame Giry's.

"Yes," said the Phantom again.

"I really do hope that you plan to say more than 'yes' on the topic," I said, wearily.

He sighed. "You should sit down."

"Please," I said, turning around and feeling defiant. I was sick of men ordering me around like I was their personal servant. "You mean, 'you should sit down, please.' "

He raised one dark eyebrow, and then frowned. Lines appeared in his forehead, making him look slightly older. "You look very tired. Please sit down."

"Fine," I said, thumping into my desk chair (and stifling a groan as the abrupt movement jarred my wrist). "I'm sitting. Tell me why you made a bargain with Luke."

The Phantom wandered over to the back wall of my room and examined the wood. I sighed, distinctly. What was he doing?

He knocked his fist experimentally against one spot, glanced back at me, and said, "Oh, I made a bargain with him because I knew you'd do something stupid – like enrage him. What were you even thinking tonight?"

"I was thinking," I began, "about-"

But this time he cut _me_ off.

"Did you actually _try_ to make him lose his head?" he asked. He was trying to appear collected, but his voice betrayed him - I heard it tremble slightly as he spoke. "Haven't you noticed how volatile he is? Really, mademoiselle, I've spent all this time trying to keep him calm, and you go and-"

"What are you talking about?" I said, loudly. "You're the one that's been sending him those stupid notes! He was angry about those; not me! He accused _me_ of writing them! You're the one that's 'enraging' him, not me!"

The Phantom considered this, twisting his long fingers together, turning their knuckles white.

After a moment, he said, "I see. I seem to have missed the beginning of your conversation with him."

"_Obviously_," I said, and turned around to lean my elbows on the desk and put my head on my fists. "You're making Luke lose his head just fine all by yourself."

"So Luke thinks you're the one sending the notes," said the Phantom. It sounded as if he was closer now.

"Yes," I said, into my fists. "Your fault; not mine."

"But when I spoke tonight-"

"- he now thinks there's actually a Phantom out there, so he's not going to suspect me anymore," I finished, sighing. "Well, at least you got _something_ right."

"I'm choosing to ignore that completely misguided statement in the hopes that you will not make another," said the lovely voice from behind me. "I suggest you get some rest."

"_I_ suggest you stop bothering everyone in the Opera, including me and Luke."

"But mademoiselle, it is my _job_. And Garmin – you know he deserves whatever he gets."

I privately agreed, but said, "Go away," and made myself get up, feeling the bones creak in my back as I stood. I grimaced and rolled my shoulders. "Go do whatever you do at night. I don't want to see you until tomorrow. Oh, and stop breaking into my room."

"Or you will do what, precisely?" he asked. He _was_ close to me; less than a foot away, and his eyes were very green against his tanned skin and the white of his mask. I blinked up at him, bemused by the color of his eyes. They were as green as emeralds, as green as the leaves in summer.

"Oh, something treacherous, I don't know," I said. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he said, but he did not move; his eyes had gone to my right wrist. "Do you need more balm?"

"No," I said, deciding that I was not up to him massaging ointment into my skin, especially at this late hour, and while I was in this exhausted state, and so I shook my head and moved towards the bathroom. "Go away."

"Of course, I bow to your commands," the Phantom said, sounding exactly as though he had not meant a word of it, and he went towards the wall and vanished.

I stared at it for a moment, as though I expected it to open up and snatch me too, but it did not move. Furthermore, there was no difference in the plaster than before. I frowned confusedly, put my hands up to my poor, aching head, and went to take a hot bath.

When I returned, clad in a long, mauve robe, and with my wet hair woven into a long braid that fell down my back, I sat down in my desk chair and took out the letter.

This was probably the thousandth time that I had read it since I had first received it, but each time I did so, it was as the first, and the pain was as sharp as though I had heard the news yesterday.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Katelienne,<strong>_

_You were right about him. I am so sorry._

_Come quickly, before it is too late._

_Your beloved sister,_

_**Claire**_


	16. Chapter 16: Cypress Flower

_I'm so sorry about how long this one is! It's the longest one yet! I suggest you read half of it per hour, ha ha. I hope you enjoy! Please tell me what you think - the next chapter will be back in the Opera House and I'll be done with Katelienne's backstory!_

* * *

><p>I sat on my balcony in my desk chair (I had dragged it outside), watching some birds fly past, and sipping my tea. It was late morning; I had slept long, and as of yet, no one had come to bother me.<p>

I put my teacup down and took out Claire's letter again, running my fingertips over the worn edges of the paper.

Claire was my only sister; besides her, I had no other siblings. She had always been wild, glamorous, adorable, quite unlike me. I was the eldest (by two years) and therefore had to be responsible and well-behaved, since I did not wish to anger my parents, who held my entire future in their hands (as I often reminded Claire, hoping that she would heed me and settle down, but this was not to be). Claire had long dark hair and light blue eyes; her complexion was pale and perfect; and she looked nothing like me. I was tall, with an olive-toned complexion, and my hair was a strange auburn hue.

Claire's favorite person in the whole world was me.

My parents were cold, stiff people, who honored propriety and common sense above all else. Claire was not their ideal child; in fact, they were planning to marry her off to a rich nobleman, but when she disappeared while on a trip to Paris, they had to discard their plans.

I was the only one she had written to after her disappearance; the only one she confided in. I did not tell my parents where she had gone (as I was not sure myself). I let them imagine her dead, as they had always wished her to be. "Death, or marriage!" was my parents' unspoken mantra.

My parents would have searched for her if they had known of her elopement, but in her "death," Claire was safe. In public society, my parents hinted gently that she had met a tragic demise in Paris, due to unforeseen circumstances and her own stupidity, and their friends and relatives quickly learned not to bring Claire's name up again. They trusted my parents not to lie.

My parents, for their part, believed that I knew nothing of Claire's disappearance; they did not question me. I had asked my maid to sneak Claire's letters up to my room with the utmost caution, and the letters I sent in return were treated in the same careful manner. No one suspected that I, the quiet, dutiful daughter, was secretly writing to my sister, whom all supposed dead.

* * *

><p>So when I finally learned her lover's name (yes, Claire was careful with that information, even with me), and what he did for a living (nothing, as far as I could tell), I wrote to warn her that her "John" may have chosen her for her money and not for love. I knew that she would be angry with me and not write for some time; she would have wanted to believe that John truly loved her.<p>

For my part, the whole elopement smacked of suspicion: she had met him in a park, he had professed that she was "the most beautiful lady he had ever laid eyes on", and with that one sentence, Claire had fallen madly, crazily, in love. John wooed her with flowers and asked her to cafés for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (it took Claire the longest time to tell me that she had paid for their meals each and every time); spoke to her in the language of trite sentimentalism and hackneyed declarations of devotion (as recorded lovingly in Claire's letters); hung on her every word, movement, and expression; praised her beauty and her wit and her intellect.

Basically, he was a fraud.

I knew this; Claire did not, or she was simply unwilling to come to terms with it. I knew that it would take her a long time, perhaps too long, to do so. I asked her if she had told him her true name, if she had told him how much she was worth. She answered in the affirmative. Yes, she had told him of her wealth, and of her family name, but John was true and noble and stalwart and in love with her. He did not care for such useless things as wealth!

I wrote back urgently: does he have friends? Anyone who would speak for his character? Does he have family, who can vouch for him?

Claire informed me that John was a poor, destitute orphan, and that his friends were few and far between. John was alone in the world, friendless – he had no one but his Claire.

Really, I wrote. Then how can you be sure that all he has told you is true? What are his moral beliefs? Does he have any?

Claire grew tired of my questions; instead of answering them, she filled up her pages with long paragraphs about her new dresses, or John's haircuts, or how she had bought three squashes yesterday, only to find that they were rotten. She sent me a picture of John, which I hid in my desk, taking it out every once in a while to contemplate his features. Was he a good man? Was he treating Claire right? I asked her where she was living, as I had done in my last seven letters – every time I sent my letters, they were to a new address.

She never answered this: not even vaguely. She simply ignored it and went on to useless topics, like fruit and baths and new curtains. John was no longer mentioned either, he fell out of the pages completely, and I began to worry. Finally, after she sent me yet another letter of utter garbage, I wrote back to her with demands.

I demanded that she tell me where she was; that she would explain exactly everything she knew about John's murky past; that she stop beating around the bush and give me straight answers, or God help me, I would tell our parents everything. _Everything._

She never replied.

* * *

><p>I waited a few more days.<p>

Then I dug her last letter out of my desk, found the address, and told my parents I was going on a little trip. They nodded at me (I was a grown woman of twenty-two by now, and fully within my rights to leave at any time) and waved goodbye. I borrowed our carriage, and our coachman, Stuart, and set off to find Claire.

The address she had listed was entirely unhelpful – I wound up in a tiny village with only peasants and about three houses, and no sign of Claire ever having been there in the first place. I asked anyone who would speak to me about my sister, described her down to the tiny circular scar on her left hand (chicken pox), but no one knew anything. I returned home distraught.

* * *

><p>It was a week later that I was given a large package: the maid had brought it upstairs with a confused look on her face, saying that someone had ridden hastily up to the house and asked that my maid deliver it only to "Mademoiselle Katelienne" and ridden away in a rush. I thanked her, and took it, and she went out.<p>

I peeled back the paper, opened the folds, and let three thin papers fall into my lap. It was Claire's last will and testament. She was dead.

* * *

><p>I passed the rest of the week alone in my room, in grieving. I told the maid through the door that I was indisposed, and to admit no visitors.<p>

* * *

><p>I locked my door and closed the windows and wished that I had died instead of her, instead of my Claire.<p>

* * *

><p>Time was distorted during those days; I felt as though I had gone down into a dark, deep abyss, and that there was no returning from it, no climbing out, no hope for light ever again.<p>

* * *

><p>Another week went by. I forced myself to open Claire's will, to read it to the last sentence and the final word, to drink the cup of grief to the fullest, drain it to its dregs.<p>

She had left me all her possessions; nothing to John. I knew immediately that if she had loved him, she would have left him at least half, but she had not. She had also attached a postscript to the end, informing me that she had also left me a certain black-bound journal.

* * *

><p>My parents had not disturbed Claire's belongings, so I went to her bedroom and searched for the journal, hoping to find some trace of her personality, some essence of her person within its pages, but there was no black-bound journal in any of her things.<p>

I searched the entire house, waiting until my parents were out on some sort of business, but there was no journal.

At last, I came to the conclusion that she had written in the journal while with John. I resigned myself to the fact that I would never find it, and sunk into a deep depression. I had no leads, no way to find the man. I did not suspect him yet – I believed that she had contracted a virus or a deadly cold, and that it had struck her down in the prime of her life, but not that he had murdered her.

* * *

><p>A few days later, I received another letter from my maid, and I thought for a moment that I had dreamed it all: Claire was still alive!<p>

I tore open the envelope eagerly (it was marked with her handwriting, Claire's dear handwriting) with my heart in my throat.

_**Katelienne,**_

_You were right about him. I am so sorry._

_Come quickly, before it is too late._

_Your beloved sister,_

_**Claire**_

She had written the address on the back. I threw on my cloak and raced downstairs and saddled a horse, and rode.

* * *

><p>I was too late; the Parisian apartment was empty; I stood in the middle of the bare, empty room, holding Claire's final letter in both hands as though it was my sole possession in this world. I felt old, very old, and very frail.<p>

Someone knocked on the door and came in; a short woman with grey hair and a large figure.

She smiled at me, said in a high-pitched voice, "Hello, dear, I'm the landlady here. Have you come to rent a room? This one, maybe?"

"I came to see someone," I said, hoarsely. "But she is not – not here."

The woman drew closer. "Was her name, by any chance, Claire? Claire… Monett?"

I nodded. I did not trust myself to speak.

"I am so sorry," the woman said, sounding as though she lied. "She was a good tenant, Claire. Not her husband, though, that good-for-nothing scoundrel. Everyone's saying he did it, you know."

"Did what?" My voice seemed to come from far away.

The landlady did not notice; she drew even closer, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Snuffed her. _Murdered _her, in this very room."

I recoiled from her, abruptly nauseated. "What?"

"She died last week," the landlady said. "There were marks, black and blue bruises, on her neck – but the police dropped the charges against her husband and he's vanished. Poof, just like that. Why – you're so pale! Do sit down."

"No," I said, "no, I must go. Goodbye."

* * *

><p>When I got into the street, someone waved a newspaper at me, and I saw Claire's lovely face peering back at me from the front page. I snatched it from them. (It was the very same article that the Phantom had found, so much later.) I cut it out and hid it in my collection of Claire's letters, and I plotted, but I did not have the ability to find John.<p>

* * *

><p>I holed myself up in my room for another week and paced up and down for hours, wanting so badly to find him and do to him what he had done to my sister, wanting to kill, to murder, to maim, to punish. I was almost out of my head with passion and rage; those days were the darkest I had ever passed, even darker than the ones after Claire's will had arrived.<p>

* * *

><p>Weeks went by; I went down to the garden in the mornings and thought of Claire, and how much she had loved the autumn. It was fall again, the trees were shedding their leaves, and I stood underneath the rain of color that fell from the trees and thought of Claire and wept for her, and the servants whispered in the corridors that I was mad.<p>

* * *

><p>I did things without realizing I was doing them; I began bad habits: biting my nails, folding down corners of books, tearing up bits of paper, eating too little. Even my parents noticed that I was moody and withdrawn, chalked it up to loneliness, and demanded that I go to town. They hoped that I would meet a rich man and marry him and leave.<p>

I went, dutifully. Claire would have gone with a laugh and a smile: to be free of our parents was a precious boon, but I could not enjoy it anymore. Nothing held any pleasure for me.

* * *

><p>Almost two years had passed when I finally found the evidence that I'd been waiting for.<p>

The Palias Garnier, after its unpleasant last performance (the fire, and all that commotion), had reopened, and its new manager was Luke Garmin. He stared up at me from that morning's paper, and I recoiled in shock. It was John Monett. Purely by chance, I had found him at last.

* * *

><p>I devised my plan; it was an odd one, but the only one I could think of on the fly, and when Garmin wrote back that he had found me a spot in the Opera House, I packed my things and left my parents' house, vowing not to return until I had done my duty by Claire.<p>

I resolved two things: that I would force Garmin to confess, in order to have solid proof of his guilt, and that I would not kill him, but instead turn him over to the police. Claire would not have wanted me to murder anyone, even John Monett.

I knew that Luke would not recognize me; I looked nothing like Claire, and I did not intend to give anything of my past away. I wrote to him as Mademoiselle Laurent, not as Mademoiselle _, and I used my fake name in all my transactions in Paris. No one suspected me, no one was the wiser, and when I finally entered the Opera House, I did so with a light heart. Soon, I knew, Luke would receive his due, and Claire would not have died in vain.


	17. Chapter 17: Fennel Blossom

_This one is short and sweet - I'll post more soon! Hope you like it! _

_To those of you who reviewed: thank you so very much! You have no idea how helpful and inspiring your reviews are!_

_And to those who are also reading: please, please review! Even a few words would be great!_

_Thanks for reading! Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>I sat up with a start – I had dozed off and my tea had spilled onto my shoe. Thankfully, it was now stone cold. I got up, wincing, as what seemed like every muscle in my body protested, and dragged my desk chair through the balcony doorway and into my room. I slipped off my soggy shoes, dried my feet, and put on some new shoes.<p>

I had just sat down at my desk and pulled my interview notebooks towards me, when someone knocked loudly on my door.

"Go away," I said, under my breath. "I'm working."

"Katelienne!" Madame Giry had a demanding voice. "I know you're in there! Luke wants us all to meet him in the auditorium for a meeting!"

I got up, slowly, and opened the door. "You're going?"

"I've been appointed ballet instructor for this opera," she said. "So, yes."

I picked up my bag, and went out of my room and locked the door. "Why are you the ballet instructor for this opera? What is it, anyways?"

"_Hannibal_," she said. "Luke's attempting to do it again, as last time there were several… catastrophes. And I'm the current instructor because I know this opera much better than Mademoiselle Martin. She is very new."

I noticed her emphasis on "new," and smiled to myself. Mademoiselle Martin was only a few years younger than Madame Giry.

We walked down the corridor, and various members of the Opera hurried past us to the staircase, talking and laughing and arguing with one other. One of the stagehands was holding the costume maker's hand; they were kissing. I averted my eyes, feeling as though I had intruded on something personal.

"Did you hear anything…strange last night?" I asked. The Phantom's little speech to Luke had been very loud.

"Why, no," said Madame Giry, as we passed several chattering ballet girls. "Girls, go to the auditorium! I'm not going to tell you again!"

The ballet girls shot her terrified looks and scampered for the staircase.

"Actually," Madame Giry said, "I did hear a rather loud voice around nine. Was that you?"

"No," I said, quietly amused, "but it was _him_, all right. Tell me, Madame Giry, why do you know so much about him, anyways?"

The corridor was empty now. I turned to face her, and she looked innocently back at me.

"I don't know how you got that idea," she said. "Why don't we continue on to the meeting?"

"You may as well tell me," I said, feeling a little put-out. "I know that you know he's real, and most of the people in this Opera House seem to think he's just a legend. Why do you know he's real and no one else does?"

"We should go," she said, and went past me down the stairs. "Ask too many questions, Mademoiselle, and you'll get nothing for your answers."

I sighed and followed her down the staircase, and we did not talk the rest of the way to the auditorium.

* * *

><p>When we got there, Luke was standing on the stage, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, and the rest of the Opera was sitting in the first six or seven rows of the auditorium, talking nervously among themselves.<p>

"We never have meetings," one of the male singers confided to a ballet girl. "Never. I wonder what's wrong."

"Do you think we're losing money?" someone else asked, worriedly.

Madame Giry lowered herself carefully into a seat, propping her cane against the back of the row in front of her. I sat down next to her, and glanced up to the stage again.

Luke was staring directly at me, his eyes piercing. I quickly looked away, focusing on remaining calm.

A few more people straggled in and found seats, and eventually the chatter died down.

Luke cleared his throat in the silence. He surveyed his audience.

"Well, this is a nice turnout."

There was a nervous ripple of laughter.

"I know that this meeting is unexpected, but it is quite necessary."

He paused, and I had a sudden sense of foreboding.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a thief."

Everyone looked around in shock, and began to whisper with their neighbors. Madame Giry sat very still next to me, her hands in her lap. My knuckles whitened on the straps of my bag; I felt ill. Who did Luke suspect? He must have been talking about his missing ring. It was probably still lying in one of Paris' many gutters.

He confirmed my suspicions with his next words.

"Yes, we have a thief in the Opera, and he – or she – has already stolen several valuable items. One of them – and I am hesitant to admit it, but I feel I must – is an engagement ring, one that I planned to present to our very own writer, Mademoiselle Laurent. Of course, I will simply have to buy a new one, but the sentimental loss is very great."

My face reddened as everyone turned to look at me, and I fought to keep a neutral expression. Then I thought better of it, and rose to my feet, intending to call Luke on his lie.

But I was unable to get up – Madame Giry caught hold of my arm with surprising strength and pulled me back down before I had risen more than a few inches.

I sat.

Luckily, Luke was beaming down over his startled audience with an air of fatherly approval. He hadn't seen my jack-in-the-box antics.

"Therefore," he continued, "I would appreciate any information you may have about this thief. I warn you, however, that if _you_ are the thief, you will face appropriate repercussions."

He folded his arms and stared with dignity at us. We all fell silent again.

"Before you go," he said, "I have one more thing to add. Anyone – anyone at all – who speaks about the so-called _Phantom_ will be fired from their position immediately. You have been warned. I will not repeat this again."

There was another outbreak of murmurs, this time, mutinous. I glanced at Madame Giry to see how she was taking these new instructions, but her face was impassive and she did not turn her eyes to me.

I shifted in my seat, trying not to laugh. Luke had done the exact opposite of what he had intended – if the Opera population was forbidden to speak of the Phantom, I was sure they would do it all the more. Luke couldn't patrol the corridors day and night; he would not be able to enforce his new rules.

Furthermore – I thought of something else, and I rose to my feet again. This time, however, Madame Giry did not stop me. She seemed to know what I was going to say. I thought I saw the ghost of a smile cross her face.

"Yes?" Luke said, reluctantly. The murmurs faded away. It was silent.

"Well," I said, "you know that I'm actually writing a book on the Phantom, Luke. I still need to conduct interviews and ask questions, you see."

"The Phantom," Luke said, taking a deep breath, "is not real."

"Well," I said, gently, "that is... debatable."

Luke took another deep breath, and let it out, slowly. He was clearly trying to keep his temper. The Opera people looked from me, to him, to me, and back again. I folded my arms. I wasn't about to back down.

"Very well," Luke said, as though as I was a stupid, ignorant child. "If you persist in your idiotic delusions, Katelienne, I _suppose_ I will _have_ to let you write-"

I opened my mouth to snap something at him, fully intending to have a battle right then and there, but my response was lost in the sound of a familiar voice.

"_How many times must I remind you, Garmin? Lose the writer, and you lose your little opera. Do you not remember what happened last time __**Hannibal**__ was performed?"_

It rang through the auditorium, and the people of the Opera gasped and stared around in circles, trying to see the Phantom. Most of them got to their feet.

I craned my neck to see past the people in front of me, trying to catch sight of Luke, but he was no longer onstage. I saw him hurry down the aisle, and as the voice reached a nearly unbearable level of sound, he broke into a run and vanished through the double doors at the end of the aisle.

"_I am not gone. I will not leave. You have been warned."_

The final echoes died away, and everyone took long breaths and looked at one another and began to chatter in high-pitched voices. I slid out of my seat and hurried out of the auditorium. Madame Giry's voice seemed to come from far away; she was calling a rehearsal and demanding for quiet.

I didn't know what it was, but I had to get out of there: the noises were too intense, the people too close, and the galling presence of Luke was still in the air, making me sick and faint. I went down corridor after corridor, finally found a staircase, and climbed until I gained the second floor. I wanted to get out into the fresh air; to reach the rooftop and open sky, but I did not make it.

* * *

><p>The Phantom, of course, was standing in the middle of the corridor, one that I had to cross to get to the other staircase. He was looking at a particularly garish tapestry of Liberty. Her hair was unbound and her clothes were half-off and she was surrounded by a mob of shrieking savages.<p>

"Pity that Garmin left before I could finish my speech," the Phantom said, thoughtfully.

I backed towards the staircase, wishing there was another corridor. "I thought I told you to-"

"- meet you tomorrow morning, yes."

"Well, I must have meant tonight," I said, wishing that I had. "I'd like to get to the roof; will you move?"

"I'm not in your way," he said, sweeping his hand out to encompass the breadth of the corridor. "You can go around me."

"I'd rather not," I said, trying not to tremble. I was reaching the end of my strength; I thought I might throw up. "Please go away."

"Why?" He turned and looked at me.

I closed my eyes. "I don't have time to argue with you. Nor the patience. I'd like some fresh air."

I could still see Luke's pale face, his glittering eyes, his hands… Claire's white throat… Claire's _blue _throat…

I must have whispered her name, for I heard the Phantom move closer.

"Katelienne?" he said. "I know - I know about Claire."


	18. Chapter 18: Balm Blossom

_This is another long chapter - sorry! Or not sorry - whatever floats your boat. Some of you will be happy, I hope!_

_Thank you for the continued reviews!_

_Please send me more!_

_Enjoy reading!_

* * *

><p>"What do you mean?" I was aghast.<p>

"I know about Claire," he said again. "She was your sister, wasn't she? You came here to find Monett… But I don't know what you plan to do to him…"

He hesitated.

"You went through my belongings," I said, numbly. "You read her will?"

"Yes."

"You read her last letter to me?"

"Yes. Yes, I read both." He took a step in the opposite direction; he turned to the wall.

"I am," he said, nearly inaudibly, "so very, very sorry for your loss."

I stood there, motionless. It felt as though anything could happen now; perhaps the walls would fall in, or the roof would come down, or a storm would rip through the Opera and float us all away in a flood of rain.

I thought of something he had said earlier. "You – you told Luke that he had to keep me here – because you wanted to help me?"

"Well, no," he admitted, turning to face me again. "I did that for – well, for myself. Everyone had forgotten about me; about the Phantom. I thought, with your presence here, they would be reminded."

"How – how utterly stupid," I said, without heat. It did not really matter now. "And, later, you discovered why I had truly come?"

He nodded. "I was curious, I confess. You did not seem the type of woman taken to wild fancies, or writings about ghosts, so I waited until you had fallen asleep one night, and I took the will and the letter from your hiding place. It was rather ingenious."

"Which part? My hiding place? Or your plan?" I asked. "No, don't answer that. How much did you guess?"

"Claire married John Monett; no, don't stop me, I know I am right. She was later… murdered by him. You discovered this when you received her will and her last letter to you. You had warned her that John was dangerous. Am I correct thus far?"

"Mostly," I said, shortly. "The rest is for me to know; you know enough."

"You may keep the rest of your secrets," he said. "After I went through your papers, I decided to test you, to see if you wanted help. I warned you about Garmin; you lied to me, pretending that you have never heard of him before. Your act would have been very convincing if I had not already read Claire's documents. But it was not. I decided to see if you would confide in me; I waited; I let you interview me, I spoke to you on several occasions afterward. You did not."

"And now?" I asked. "Why tell me now?"

"I assumed you might take it badly if I went much longer without telling you. See, even now you are angry with me; I see how white your knuckles are on that bag."

I dropped my hands. "Do not analyze me as though I was some sort of new species. You had no right to go through my private belongings, no right at all. I did not want your help."

"But you need it," he said. "You need it now even more than before. Garmin is beyond your reach. You need someone who can find the proof of his true nature. Garmin has put up barriers against you, and you have lost your chance to charm your way into his life."

"Our previous arrangement is off," I interrupted. "If you are offering me your help, I will take it on the condition that you hold me to something also. I do not trust you to do things simply because you think it right, or noble, or compassionate. Name your price."

The Phantom was attempting not to laugh; I could see it in his eyes.

I took a step forward, clenching my hands at my sides. "I will _not_ be mocked."

"I was not mocking you," he said, and his eyes cooled. "I will accept your new terms, so long as you promise to finish writing that novel of yours and publish it within the year."

"Very well," I said. "Shake hands."

He took my hand. We shook.

"But," he added, "I expect to read your manuscript before you publish it. If I don't like something, I want you to take it out."

I stared at him incredulously. "I don't care about the novel; I only care about Garmin. I'll write whatever you want. How are you going to help me?"

"First," the Phantom said, "I want to see that journal that Claire left you in her will. It wasn't in your room."

I shook my head. "No."

The journal was for my eyes alone, and furthermore, I did not want the Phantom to know I did not have it.

"No?" he asked.

"No," I said. "No, you can't see it."

"Hmm," he murmured. "Well. Tell me what you have in mind for Garmin."

I simply looked at him. "I thought you told me you weren't a murderer."

"Are _you_?" he asked. "If so, we have a small problem."

"I thought," I said, exasperated, "that you were going to suggest that we-"

"No, I was not going to."

I sighed. "Jail. He's going to jail. I just need proof."

"Doesn't the journal have some sort of proof? Anything about her domestic life with him?"

I took a deep breath. I did not know how to lie about it again. "Maybe."

The Phantom looked at me piercingly, his dark head inclined towards mine. "You don't have it, do you?"

"I don't know what you mean," I said. "I'll tell you what to do about Garmin; everything else is my personal business."

"Very well," he said, grudgingly. He crossed his arms. "What would you like?"

"First," I said, taking a deep breath, "I want you to mess up the rehearsals, annoy the dancers and singers and stagehands, to do every threatening thing that you can think of. I want you to leave Garmin intimidating notes. I want him to be afraid."

The Phantom considered me for a moment, and then nodded. "I can do that."

"Then," I said, "during every performance of _Hannibal_, I want you to make him look like a fool. Drop backdrops, frighten the audience, mock him. Remind him that he's not in charge; make him lose control. When he's at the end of his rope, we will see what we can do."

"You think that by driving him to the breaking point, he'll be easier to crack?"

"I want a confession from him," I said. "I don't care how I get it. But I need witnesses. Policemen would work. Anyone not personally connected to me or Garmin would work. I'm thinking we should plan this final scene during the night of the masquerade, in the middle of the ballroom or something."

"That only gives us one week," the Phantom pointed out.

"Yes," I said, "but it will have to be enough. I want him locked up. I want justice."

The Phantom leaned back against the wall, rubbing his chin and staring off into space. I sighed and sat down on the floor. I was tired.

"I neglected to tell you all," he said, quietly.

I looked up from my hands. "Why? What else did you read?"

"Actually, it was more along the lines of what I _wrote_," he said. There was a strange expression on his face, a faint half-smile.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry stepped out of the shadows at the end of the corridor.<p>

I sprang to my feet. "No, no, no! You did not! How _could_ you?"

"I _told_ you she would take it badly," the ballet instructor said to the Phantom. "But no, you had to keep her in the dark."

He shrugged. "It's all worked out for the best, Madame. Garmin's angry at her; he won't take too kindly to her sneaking around after him, searching for evidence against him."

"Are you saying," I began, "that you're going to use her as a spy?"

" 'Her' is standing right here," said Madame Giry, fixing her quick, intelligent eyes on me. "And yes, he does mean that. I've already started. Of course, I don't have anything substantial yet."

She and the Phantom exchanged conspiratorial glances; he smirked.

I frowned at both of them, feeling maligned. "When did you tell her?"

"A few weeks ago," said Madame Giry, loudly, as though she felt she was being ignored. "He sent me a letter."

"About everything? Or just the part where he went through my personal belongings? Or only the part where he broke into my room? What about the part where he lied to me? What about-"

I broke off. There were footsteps in the distance, the sound of several people coming up the stairs. Their voices were growing louder.

"I'll see you tonight," the Phantom told me, grinning at my angry expression. He slipped behind the garish tapestry and vanished.

I took a step towards Madame Giry, fully intending to drag her to my room and make her tell me everything, but she shook her head at me and gestured towards the people emerging from the staircase.

"I'm off to rehearsal. I will look for you tomorrow." She went into the rapidly approaching crowd, and I watched her reach the staircase and go around the corner, down the stairs.

I sighed, picked up my bag, and started back to my room.

_Tonight,_ I told myself, _I will break into Luke's office – without the Phantom's help – and find Claire's journal. Even if it costs me everything._


	19. Chapter 19: Bumblebee Orchid

_Another really long chapter - I apologize..._

_Reviews are very welcome!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>When I reached my room, I went into my bathroom and changed into dark breeches, a long, black linen shirt, and slim black boots. I had bought them, under the pretense that they were for my "brother," in one of Paris' clothing shops.<p>

They fit well, despite the fact that they were very different from what I was accustomed to wearing. I looked at myself in the dusty, full-length mirror, and I saw an impostor: a woman dressed in boy's clothes, her bun falling down around her face.

I sighed, took my hair down, and wove it into a braid, leaving it free to hang down my back. It was too thick to stay up the entire night, even with my thousands of hairpins.

I blew out the candles in the bathroom and snuck into my room, hoping that the Phantom wasn't nearby and watching me. I picked up a handful of candles and stuffed them into my bag; collected some matches; grabbed my knife and fastened it to my belt, and went over to the same wall that the Phantom had disappeared into three nights ago.

He had run his hands over the upper left section. I did the same, and something groaned inside the wall: it sounded like old machinery. I rapped my knuckles on the area again, and the wall groaned and slid open.

I stared at the dark opening, bit my lip, and lit my first candle, sticking it into my brass candle holder. Then I walked around my room and blew all the other candles out.

When I came back to the opening, my eyes had adjusted to the dark, and I put my left hand on the wall, and stepped through the opening onto the slim metal catwalk. As I went through, the wall began to slide shut – I hurriedly picked up my pace and got into the passageway with only a few seconds to spare. The wall closed.

I leaned against the slimy right-hand wall and caught my breath: this was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>The passageway was only about a foot and a half in diameter, but the height of the catwalk, and the fact that I was on the second floor, indicated that a large distance lay between me and the bottom. The catwalk I stood on was a few inches wide; it was lucky I was wearing sturdy boots and not my flimsy shoes. I took a few more steps, testing the catwalk, hoping that it was not rusting, but then I remembered that the Phantom, who definitely weighed more than I did, had not fallen through. I would not either.<p>

Of course, I did not take into account the fact that the Phantom had walked these passageways for years.

My first problem came when a gust of wind swept through the passageway, like the freezing breath of an underground monster, and my candle wavered and blew out. I stopped and fumbled for the matches, managed to strike one on the sandpaper I had brought, and lit the candle again.

Then I gasped in horror, and the breathless sound echoed faintly into the distance.

The catwalk had broken off, and I was standing on the edge of an abyss: the wind had saved me. If my candle hadn't blown out, I would likely have plummeted to my death. Even with the candlelight, I had not seen the missing section of the catwalk.

I retraced my steps, holding my candle high to look for exits, and finally found an opening in the wall about five feet in the air. There was a series of steps dug into the wall beneath it; they were crumbling. I gritted my teeth, set my candle on the catwalk (dropping the brass candle holder into my pocket), and climbed onto the railing, leaning on the wall for support.

I put my foot on the first stair; it held. I stepped onto it with both feet, stepped onto the next stair (it held), went to the next, and the next, and finally the fifth, and slid headlong into the opening, landing on something smooth and hard. Tiles.

I sat up and looked around: I seemed to be in another corridor, but it was very dusty and obviously unused by normal Opera people, although every torch on the walls was lit.

I leaned down through the staircase and blew hard, hoping to kill the candle flame. It wavered, bent to one side, and finally went out. I picked up a rock from the topmost stair and threw it: the candle toppled off the catwalk and fell into the darkness. It would not do if the Phantom found evidence that someone had been in his secret passageways. I knew he would suspect me first.

I got up and went down the passageway, taking out my compass and checking the dial. I was still going north; this was good. Luke's office was in the northern part of the Opera House.

I walked for quite some time, checking my compass now and then, feeling more and more excited by the moment. I would make it to Luke's office in no time, at the rate I was moving.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, I realized too late that the Phantom would (of course) set traps for those who snuck uninvited into his secret passages.<p>

The first time, I was very, very lucky. I had just passed a rather annoying section of red and blue tiles: I chose the blue, because I had always liked playing games while walking (as a child, mind you, not an adult), and avoided all the red ones, which made my head hurt when I stared at them.

I had just gone past the colorful tiles when I heard something scrabble across the floor. I turned: it was a rat, and it was crossing the tiles in a straight line, having come from the other side of the corridor. It went across a white tile, then a blue one, and when it scampered into a red one, something fell in a silver line from the ceiling, and the rat collapsed.

I gaped at it, stunned. There was a thin silver dart sticking out of the rat's furry back. It appeared to be dead.

Then I remembered that the Phantom had told me he was _not_ a murderer, and I drew breath again. The dart probably held some sort of fast-acting sedative. I straightened up and looked around, afraid that I had already triggered some sort of trap. I did not want to waste my night sleeping in this dusty, creepy, cold, tiled corridor, instead of retrieving Claire's journal.

I stared at the plain white tiles I had to cross next, and underwent a paroxysm of fear; for a moment, I fought to remain calm and breathe slowly. If I panicked, it would be unlikely that I would leave these corridors unharmed.

These tiles seemed normal. I took my chances and crossed them as if I was walking in a park: in a straight, leisurely line; checking the ceiling for odd obtrusions and the walls for funny bumps. There was nothing, not a sign of danger, and I reached the other side with a feeling of relief.

Only a few more sections of tile lay between me and the door at the end of the corridor: I took a deep breath and looked down at the next section of tile. These were painted with vines: there were six rows of ten tiles, and each beginning tile had the base of a vine, each vine laden with blossoms. One had red flowers. The rest, respectively, were white, black, yellow, pink, lavender, orange, blue, gray, and brown. I suspected that in order to cross without harm, I had to use only one of the vines.

I did not know what the Phantom's favorite color was. I doubted he had one. In fact, I doubted that he would have chosen his favorite color to be the correct vine to use, anyways.

I looked up at the ceiling: no sign of danger. The walls: bare and empty. The passageway behind me: similarly empty.

I drew a deep breath and chose the nearest vine: it was the one with yellow flowers.

It was with a feeling of futility that I began to step onto the vine, but suddenly, I thought of something new and drew my foot back.

RWBYPLOBGB.

Maybe I had to spell out a name or something using the first letters of the colors of the flowers.

Then I thought of something else. Each of the flowers was an actual flower: the red ones were roses, the yellow ones marigolds, the black ones tulips. Maybe I had to spell out a name using the flowers' usual names.

Or maybe, I finally decided, I had to choose the flower that represented something the Phantom held dear. Flowers had their own language: each represented some sort of abstract idea.

I bent down and studied them.

It was not roses; the Phantom was probably sick of love. No, not the tulips; they also meant love, perfect love. My eyes went to the marigolds. They represented, as far as I could remember, passion and creativity. Yes, these were the ones the Phantom was most likely to choose. I stepped onto the yellow flowers with more than a small measure of triumph.

* * *

><p>Then something whizzed past my ear, nearly striking my cheek, and I flung myself towards the floor, diving away from the hail of darts. I could hear them spitting into the wall; I rolled away and down the corridor, hoping I was out of the vines, and I got halfway to my feet and sprinted.<p>

I reached the next tile section: it was bare, so I kept running.

The second was painted completely black: I decided that it probably represented a trick trapdoor, so I ran a few feet back and hurled myself forward, clearing the section by only a few inches.

I was at the door. I pushed it open and hurtled through.

* * *

><p>I had emerged, finally, into a passageway I recognized: it was the hallway behind the kitchens, and I knew I could get into Luke's office without being seen, because the giant portrait of the nameless prima donna in Luke's office hung over the end of this very hallway.<p>

One of the ballet girls had told me about it, between spurts of laughter, during my interview with her: her name was Meg, and she was Madame Giry's only daughter. I had tracked her down with difficulty, as she had been living in the French countryside happily married to a duke and with three adorable children.

"We used to spy on the managers all the time," she had laughed, her face bright with humor. "They were always so worried about Carlotta and their upcoming performances; it was a wonder they lasted as long as they did! And they never found out that we were listening to all their conversations!"

I smiled to myself as I remembered her words. I was very thankful that I had spoken with her. I picked up my pace.

I was nearly to the end of the corridor when I heard voices, and I froze.

"I thought I asked you to complete this paperwork, Cooper," said Luke's voice. I breathed out, relieved, and went to the end of the passageway, hoping that Luke (and Cooper) would leave the office soon.

"I know, Monsieur," Cooper said in a weary tone, "but I've been a little busy. You know I'm working on the advertisements for the upcoming performance."

"I want you to focus on this," Luke said. "And not in here: go back to your room to finish it. But before you do – if you see Katelienne tonight, tell her to come by my room."

"Your room, Monsieur?" Cooper asked, sounding confused. "But aren't you going to-"

"- stay here?" Luke asked. He chuckled. "No. I'm sick of this place. I'm leaving. Lock up before you go, won't you?" His chair scraped against the floor; I heard him stand up.

"All right," Cooper said. "Goodnight."

I heard the outside door open and slam shut, and Cooper's answering sigh; there was a rustle of papers. The door opened again, shut again, and something metallic-sounding clicked into place. Cooper had locked the door; he was gone.

I tapped on the wall, holding up my candle to the thin wood. It didn't move. I set the candle on the floor and ran my fingers around the edge of the metal strip in the base of the wall, found a nail head, and pressed it in.

With a dim grinding sound, the portrait swung forward, and I stepped over the bottom of the wall, picked up my candle, and went in.

* * *

><p>Claire's journal was not lying on top of a chair in plain sight, nor was it in any of Luke's various cabinets. I crossed the office to the back of his desk, pulled out his chair, and opened the first drawer.<p>

It took a long time for me to sort through the mess of papers and folders and books; but when I had finished piling them all on the desk, I found a slim metal rod poking out of the back of the drawer, and I pushed it down gently, hoping that it was what I thought it to be.

A thin shelf dropped out of the bottom of the drawer, revealing a small opening, and I reached in (with a little squeamishness) and pulled out a slim, black-bound journal.

Claire's name was inside the front page. I straightened up, put the journal inside my shirt for safekeeping, shut the little hidden shelf, and hastily shoved everything back inside.

Then the office door swung open and two armed policemen strode inside.


	20. Chapter 20: Coreopsis

_Okay, so here's a new chapter! YAY!  
><em>

_Please review! Thank you all for reading!_

* * *

><p>Light from the hallway poured into the room, illuminating the carpet.<p>

I hastily blew out the candle on the desk: the policemen did not have torches; and I was pretty sure they hadn't gotten a good look at my face. I was wearing breeches – they would think I was a man. This, fortunately, was duly confirmed.

"Monsieur," said the first policeman, "step away from the desk."

The other policeman went to the door and stuck his head out, calling to someone outside. "Monsieur Garmin! We have caught the thief!"

I did not know what to do. I was trapped. I thought briefly of my knife, decided it was a very bad idea, and tried to think of anything, anything else that might save me, but my brain had whirred to a complete stop.

The first policeman stepped towards the desk, eyes squinted, as he tried to get a good look at my face. I backed away until I was pressed into the back wall between the bookcase and a display case of old party masks, and fumbled, uselessly, in my bag. My fingers closed around the knife: maybe I could use the hilt to defend myself.

I could hear Luke coming down the hall, and several other voices: Cooper's, Madame Giry's, and a few others I couldn't recognize.

The policeman had almost reached the desk, he reached for the candle, intending to light it, and the wall behind me trembled and fell away.

* * *

><p>I tumbled backwards, fully expecting to land hard on a stone floor, but someone caught me and pulled me upright. The office disappeared as the wall slid shut again; I could hear dim sounds of protest and commotion, shouts, questions, furious movements from behind it.<p>

I turned to face my noble rescuer, rubbing at my ankle. "You smacked my foot into the wall."

"Of course, you neglect to mention the fact that I singlehandedly delivered you from certain incarceration," the Phantom pointed out. "Or that I managed to do so without preparation beforehand. We should, I believe, have the rest of this conversation elsewhere."

"Fine," I said, going past him into the darkness. "I suppose I should thank you."

"I go first," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "There's various traps and things down here. And I suppose you're welcome."

I let him go around me.

We walked for a long time through the dark. I was beginning to feel slightly claustrophobic, so I searched for a conversation topic, but the Phantom beat me to it.

"You found the secret passageway in your room," he said.

I nodded, realized he couldn't see me, and said, "Well, yes. You made it rather obvious."

He glanced over his shoulder at me, and swiped several spider webs out of the way. I ducked to avoid their remains, wrinkling my nose at the moldy smell that rose up from the cobblestones beneath my boots.

"You should have asked me for help."

"I can take care of myself, thank you," I snapped.

"Obviously. This, from the woman who forgot to plan an escape route."

"I didn't expect _policemen_ to arrive. I had no idea Luke had them watching his office."

"Well, if you had walked down the corridor like a normal person, you would have seen them. I, on the other hand, was surprisingly able to locate them. Perhaps it was their uniforms. Are you sure you want to keep breaking into people's rooms? You're not very good at it."

"I'm not about to make a habit of it," I said, annoyed. "I'm not a thief."

"Yes? So how did you come by that journal without stealing it?"

I wrapped my arms protectively around my torso. "How did you – how long were you watching me?"

"Long enough," he answered, and pushed at the wall that we had been walking towards this whole time. Something soft lifted away from the opening, and I smelled mold again: it was the ugly Liberty tapestry the Phantom had used as an exit that afternoon.

We emerged into the hallway, and I brushed dirt and something unidentifiable (spider webs?) out of my hair, blinking at the bright torches.

"This is where I leave you," said the masked man, grandly.

"Actually, no. First I need you to go find out if anyone knows it was me in Luke's office."

The Phantom grimaced, and turned to go. "Goodnight."

"You better do it!" I called after him, and then moderated my voice, not wanting the ballet girls to awaken. "Luke will send the police to my room if he suspects me."

"Well, then, you should go change out of that outfit," was the Phantom's faint reply. He went around the corner.

* * *

><p>I decided it would be best to take his advice. I hurried back to my room, hoping that I wouldn't run into anyone, and broke into a sprint when I reached my corridor.<p>

I closed my door, locked it, stripped my clothes off, shoved them into the bottom of my suitcase, and pulled my nightgown over my head. I had originally planned to take a bath after my little robbery, but since I didn't know if Luke was going to send the police to my room, I didn't even try. I got into bed, telling myself that I would definitely wash the sheets tomorrow.

Amazingly enough, I fell asleep.

* * *

><p>I woke to the sound of something rumbling.<p>

I sat up, and the Phantom climbed out of the wall, running his fingers through his hair in a tired manner.

"It's so pleasant to see that _someone's_ resting," he commented, eying me darkly.

I got out of bed and put on my robe, turning my back on him to fasten the ties. "You're the one who agreed to the deal. In fact, I seem to recall that you were the one who decided its terms."

He did not respond to my jab; only sighed, disappointedly (this was fake-sounding - I rolled my eyes). "I have discovered Garmin's opinion on the matter of the thief."

"And?" I pressed. "Please say it quickly; you're wasting my sleeping time."

"I dutifully obey your _every_ whim, Mademoiselle, as always. Garmin… Garmin does not seem to think it was you."

"Well, whom has he blamed instead?"

The Phantom went over to my balcony door and opened it (without the key. I wondered if he had broken it). "No one, as of yet. Do you have someone in mind – anyone you want to frame?"

"No!" I said, horrified. "I am not going to frame anyone! You must think I am utterly depraved!"

He went out onto the balcony and looked up at the stars, apparently lost in deep, philosophical thought. "No... not really, I suppose. Only sometimes, when you are ranting on and on about various things... And no, Garmin has not pinned it on anyone yet. He appears to be at a loss. That reminds me. Have you read Claire's journal yet?"

"No," I said. "When I find something useful in it, I will tell you."

"Of course." He sounded a bit sarcastic. I chose to ignore this.

He stared out over the city for another moment, and then swiveled around to fix his dark eyes on me.

"Garmin went into a bit of a rage after the policemen left. He took out papers and books from his desk and tossed them everywhere; he knows the journal's missing. Katelienne, he will eventually connect the loss of the journal to you; you only arrived a few months ago. You are the only woman here about Claire's age. You need to read the journal and see if she made any reference to you."

"I had thought of that. Luke must have read it. He wouldn't have just stuffed it away and forgot about it. Also, Claire might have told him that she had a sister. He may even have read the letters I sent to her."

"Yes, he might have," the Phantom agreed. His gaze was very piercing.

I looked away, sat down on my bed, and thought for a moment. I _was _tired. Perhaps this was not the best time. "I'll read the journal tomorrow. I'm going to get some rest now. So should you."

"I do not sleep as long as you," he said, patronizingly. "I will see you tomorrow, if I'm around."

I watched him climb up the outside stairs and vanish into the night.

* * *

><p>I woke at six in the morning, from yet another nightmare involving Claire, and gave up on going back to sleep. Instead, I went down to the kitchens, ate breakfast, and headed to the auditorium.<p>

The Phantom had said that he would disrupt the rehearsals for me; I wanted to see what he was going to do. I sat down in the second row and dropped my notebook in my lap, my pen in hand. If Luke walked in, I wanted him to believe that I was working on my novel. It would _definitely_ disturb him.

The rehearsal went very smoothly for the first two hours.

It was so smooth, in fact, that I grew bored. Madame Giry kept running the ballet girls through the same scene, over, and over, and over, and Luke hadn't even shown up yet. I sighed and drew more doodles in my notebook, pretending to be taking intricate, detailed notes.

Another long, long hour passed.

Luke hadn't shown up. The Phantom hadn't broken anything. No one was panicked, surprised, or even interested in anything besides rehearsing. Madame Giry kept glancing at me and smiling; apparently I was amusing her by sitting in on the rehearsal. Perhaps she thought I intended to corner her afterward and ask her about the Phantom. I did not have this in mind.

I waited for a few more boring, dreary hours, and then I left to eat lunch, following the ballet girls and Madame Giry from the auditorium. The Phantom was either indisposed or temporarily deaf, as far as I could tell – he had not shown up during the entire five hours I had spent there. Perhaps he'd been lurking in the catwalks overhead, laughing at me.

* * *

><p>Later, I stood in the middle of my room, holding Claire's journal in both hands, trying to persuade myself to open it.<p>

I slipped two fingers under the cover, flipped it open to the first page: Claire's name.

I turned the page (it was blank), turned another, and another – still nothing, and finally took hold of the book with both hands and opened it to the middle, hoping to find _some_ writing, drawings, anything.

A veritable wave of blue ink spurted from the journal: I staggered back, closing my eyes in shock, and threw a hand up over my face, but I was too late - it had gotten all over me. I ran into the bathroom and let my drenched hand drip into the sink, and looked up hopelessly into the mirror.

My forehead, my inside right forearm, my neck, and the front of my dress were now a deep indigo color. I groaned.

After my bath (which removed none of the ink whatsoever), and during which I found that some of the ink had stained a section of my hair purple, I went back into my room and surveyed the floor.

The journal lay on the floor where I had dropped it, but it had fallen binding side down, so there were only a few distinct ink spatters in the wood. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped the journal in it, then set to work scrubbing the floor.

A half hour later, there were still ink stains, and I was still partly blue. I threw the stained towels and clothes in the fire and let them burn, opening my balcony door to let the fumes out, and I put a rug over the stains on the floor (which I should have thought of in the first place). Then I wrapped up in my cloak and sat down on the rug next to the balcony door, letting the wind wash over me.

It had been a _very_ long morning.

* * *

><p>The Phantom came to my room around two that afternoon, descending from the roof.<p>

I had drowsed off against the wall, my arms wrapped around my knees. I did not wake until he spoke.

"What happened to you?"

I blinked at the sunlight streaming through the balcony door, and closed my eyes in momentary pain. Then I tried again, and managed to make out the Phantom's silhouette.

"Oh. It's you. The journal was rigged. A fake."

The Phantom crouched down next to me, draping his arms over his legs, a wicked grin in his green eyes. "The blue looks nice with your hair. Even the part that's turned violet."

"Oh, be quiet," I said. "What are we going to do about this?"

"We?"

"You're my business partner, Phantom. You're going to help me. If I go anywhere in this Opera, people are going to notice that I'm _blue_. I can't even leave my room, and pretty soon, someone's going to open my door and see me, and Luke will find out in no time that I was the thief."

He didn't say anything; I tilted my head up to look at him. "You _are_ going to help me, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose I must. Like usual."

I wrinkled my nose at this little comment, but kept my mouth shut. I didn't think arguing with him would help right now.

The Phantom rose to his feet and offered me a hand. "You can stay in my house for a few days, until that ink comes off. I might have an idea of how to get rid of it. You did want to see my home, didn't you?"

I was forced to agree.


	21. Chapter 21: Strawflower

_Dear readers..._

_YAY! We're finally at the Phantom's lair/cavern/house/something!_

* * *

><p>We went through several thousand passageways (forgive my exaggeration, but it felt like it) to reach the underground portion of the Opera; since I was not blessed with a photographic memory, I promptly forgot them all as soon as we had passed through.<p>

The Phantom walked quickly, unerringly, speeding through the deep darkness as though he had the eyes of a cat, and I almost had to run to keep up with his long legs. He strode down staircases, whizzed around corners, flew through doorways/trapdoors/hidden entrances, and escalated on level surfaces.

I began to wish that he would stop, or even, for the love of God, slow down.

I got my wish when he came to an abrupt halt at the end of a long, dim, smelly passageway and fiddled with the wall, which was made completely of reflective glass. I looked a wreck in the makeshift mirror: my hair was falling down again and half my face was indigo-colored, but at least I was still on my feet, as I felt it was possible for me not to be.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder (it held two changes of clothes, some toiletries, a few hair ties), and tried not to sigh. The Phantom, for once, looked almost normal. His mask was not as bright as usual in the dim light. It suited him well.

"Are we almost there?" I demanded.

"You lack patience," the Phantom replied, snidely, and I made a face behind him, which he saw and pretended to ignore. "No."

"Lovely," I said. "Don't you remember that I've been up for nearly twenty hours? I'm tired. And you walk too fast."

The mirror slid up into the top of the wall, revealing a dark doorway; the Phantom turned to look at me, and his eyes finally went to mine for the first time since the beginning of our little (ha!) walk.

"You're tired," he repeated, in that beautiful voice of his (I don't think he knew what I thought about it, so he wasn't doing it on purpose), and I had to fight to remember what I had been thinking before he spoke. I was really losing it.

"Didn't I just say that? Yes. I'm tired. Perhaps you could moderate your rapid pace to something more manageable."

His eyes were unreadable in the darkness, but something like a smile (I thought) flickered across his face.

"Would you like to rest for a moment?"

"Yes, I would. Where-"

"After we go down this catwalk, we'll be almost there."

"Almost to your house?"

"Well, yes."

"Good," I said, peering into the darkness beyond the Phantom. "Doesn't this little catwalk have any torches? Candelabras? Lamps? Please tell me you have candles, at least."

"No, I do not. I would like to take this chance to remind you not to use them in my passageways. You could have burned the whole Opera House down last night."

"I blew the candle out," I told him. "I highly doubt it would have lit the Opera on fire."

"Don't bring them with you anymore. And stay out of the passageways unless I'm with you. Is that clear?"

I knew that I would probably be able to work around his commands if I was careful, so I nodded innocently and promised to follow his instructions.

His eyebrows went up (in skepticism, no doubt), but he turned away into the darkness and stepped through the doorway.

I followed, much more slowly - my feet hurt - and wished for a torch.

* * *

><p>The catwalk was as slim as the one behind my room, but it was slippery and the passageway was much colder. We were very deep in the Opera now. I squinted and tried to focus my vision, searching for any source of light, however faint, but I could not see the Phantom, or anything else, at all.<p>

I could hear, though, so I concentrated on the sound of the Phantom's footsteps, which echoed eerily into the distance, and tried to calm my heart. It was very difficult to walk calmly in pitch darkness, on a tiny metal strut, behind a masked man who I didn't really trust, and whom I couldn't see, over a probable abyss which I could fall into and die, to a place I had never been before, and which I did not really expect to find appealing, or comfortable, or at the very least, _warm_.

I took tiny breaths through my mouth, attempting to ignore the stench that rose up from the chasm beneath us. It was very cold, and my breath blew back into my face, with the humid characteristic of fog. I wished I had brought my cloak, but now it was far behind, high up in the top levels of the Opera, and there was absolutely no chance of retrieving it.

My eyes began to grow heavy; even as I teetered on the edge of the catwalk and fought to keep my footing, even as I listened to the nearly silent footfalls of the Phantom, even as the air grew colder and thicker and even smellier. I resorted to pinching the inside of my arm with my fingernails to stay alert, but the darkness was weighing down on me, becoming heavier, and I began to feel almost weightless, nearly released from the earth's gravity.

The first time I dozed off I woke almost instantly, shaking with the knowledge of near death, and the Phantom heard my quiet gasp and spoke.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," I said, shakily, "fine. Just tripped."

I went a few more feet, still pinching my arm, but the pain was not enough to wake me and my eyes closed again.

* * *

><p>This time I woke in mid-fall: I had drifted off while lifting my foot, and had overbalanced. My foot thudded onto the catwalk and I barely stayed upright, breathing hard.<p>

Something soft-sounding like cloth shifted in front of me, and the Phantom's strong hands latched onto my shoulders. He had turned around.

"Are you all right?" he asked again, and I blinked up at him, or at least in his direction.

"Just tired," I said. I could feel my heart stuttering in my chest from the unpleasant awakening. "Very tired, actually. How much longer is this passageway?"

"A few minutes more," he said. He hadn't released my shoulders; the pressure of his fingers was warm through the cold silk of my gown. "Why don't you walk in front of me?"

"Traps?" I asked.

He dropped his hands; I had shifted, as his closeness was slightly uncomfortable. "None here. I would think this catwalk is dangerous enough without them, wouldn't you?"

He was teasing me gently, trying to get a response, but I felt another wave of extreme exhaustion crash over me, and only nodded.

It took a bit of silent maneuvering for me to go around him, but we managed it in the end. I forced my legs to move onward, my feet to find holds on the slippery metal, my eyes to focus, though I could not see; nor barely breathe the tepid, freezing air.

Eventually I dozed off again, even with the knowledge that the Phantom was behind me, his breath ebbing into the air like white clouds, his lean body only inches away…

* * *

><p>I woke on the freezing catwalk, half-kneeling on the metal, and he leaned over me from behind.<p>

"Katelienne? Are you all right?"

"Oh, mon Dieu," I said, weakly. "I'm fine. I just keep falling asleep."

"Here, get up." He hooked his hands under my arms and brought me to my feet, and I wobbled for a second on my shaking legs.

"This is idiotic."

"What?" he asked.

"I'm sorry; I'm never like this…"

His hands were under my elbows, helping me stay upright. "How? Tired? It's not your fault."

"Whatever," I said, pulling myself away from him and staggering a few more feet. "How much longer from here?"

"We've arrived," he said. There was a faint note of relief in his voice, but I wasn't sure what this signified, so I ignored it and staggered on.

It was lucky that we had reached the end of the passageway when we did. I was beginning to worry that I would not make it.

We went down one last flight of stairs, and crossed a long expanse of stone floor to a dock, and I stared out over a glittering, massive lake, feeling lightheaded.

"You have a lake in your house."

"Around it, actually. Pretty, isn't it?"

"Why do you ever leave?" I asked, only half-jokingly. "It's very beautiful."

He helped me into the gondola (odd, a gondola in an underground lake – had he traveled to Venice?) and we left the dock behind with long strokes of the stick-like paddle.

"So," I said, clearing my throat. "Has this lake always been here?"

"Why so interested?" he replied, glancing back at me.

I yawned. "I'm trying to start a conversation here."

"Well," he said, "ever since I got here."

"When was that?"

"A while ago."

"You're very informative," I commented, under my breath, and looked past him across the water. There was something glowing in the distance: the shore? Was that a house?

If the Phantom had heard my comment, he politely (or because he wanted to bother me) chose to ignore it. The gondola bumped to a halt, and I looked down into the water, realizing that we would have to wade to shore. I made an attempt to rise to my feet, teetered ominously, and quickly sat back down.

He sent me a look of amusement; I frowned back at him. "Sorry, I guess I'm not very agile tonight."

"No matter," he said, wryly. "Do you need help?"

"If you were to tie the boat up to something, I could get out on my own," I retorted.

He raised an eyebrow. "There's not a dock here."

"Fine," I said, and got to my feet again. This time I didn't fall over, and the Phantom smiled a little and climbed out himself, landing with a small splash in the water. It came up to the top of his boots.

I looked down at him. "Really."

But he was already wading towards the shore. Apparently he had anticipated that I would refuse his help. So I jumped out myself, taking care to hold my skirts down with one hand – the other held my bag safely above my head – and landed (mostly with grace) in the icy water, which instantly drenched six inches of my skirts and petticoats, and numbed my toes.

* * *

><p>The Phantom had vanished into the darkness of the shore by the time I stepped onto dry land. I tugged my weighted skirts up over the steps, feeling more than a little miffed, and thought rather grumpy thoughts.<p>

Since there was no one to tell me what to do, I sat down on the nearest chair (a hard wooden one) and looked around as I wrung water out of my skirts.

I was sitting next to a glass table with two other chairs (one was stuffed silk, the other, a very large mahogany armchair) around it, in front of the little staircase I had just ascended from the water. Behind me, the entire shore (as far as I could see) was filled with furniture, papers, and various musical instruments. In the far back, there was an organ, its pipes stretching up into the darkness of the cavern's roof and disappearing.

The stone floor was dark with moisture, and the air was cold, almost fog-like. I shivered as I straightened up, wiping my wet hands on the upper part of my skirts. Clearly, the Phantom liked it cold.

Light began to grow in the back of the cavern, illuminating the dark wood of cabinets, wardrobes, and desks, and slowly spreading out through the rest of the shore. Someone was lighting candles. I got to my feet and stepped away from the table. I didn't want to sit somewhere that I wasn't supposed to. It was his house (shore? cavern? abyss?), after all.

By the time he reached me, the shore was filled with the light of fifty, maybe sixty candles, and their light cast a hazy glow on the whole scene, giving it an eerie, almost picturesque atmosphere. The Phantom was carrying towels in one hand and something else in the other, something small. I squinted at it as he came closer: it was glinting metallically in the candlelight.

"What's that?"

The Phantom held up Luke's ring with an air of triumph.

"Perhaps we should give this back. I thought you might want to throw it in his face when he presents it to you."

"What?" I said, taking a towel from him and drying my damp hands. "He still wants-"

"- to marry you, yes. In fact, he's planning to ask you during the masquerade."

"Impossible," I said. "That man has clearly lost his mind. Give that to me; I'm throwing it in the lake. Oh – and that reminds me. I've formulated a plan."

"Don't tell me," the Phantom said, with deep gloom. "I'm the main participant. Why do I always have to do all the work?"


	22. Chapter 22: Dandelion

_Thank you for the reviews! I welcome more!_

_I hope you enjoy this chapter! I know I had fun writing it!_

* * *

><p>"What on earth do you mean?" I said, with more than a little righteous anger. "I'm the one who went and got the journal! I'm the one who's been handling Garmin – the wretch – and working so hard and-"<p>

I pulled myself together, and stopped sputtering, and glared at the Phantom. "Stop provoking me."

"But it is so _effortless_," he said, provokingly. "I daresay you would have gone on all night if you hadn't finally figured it out."

"I'd like to use the powder room," I said, coolly. "I'd ask you to show me to it, but I'd think you'd lose me in that mess over there, and then where would we be?"

The Phantom stiffened at my callous remark about his overflowing pile of furniture and papers, and snapped, "It is not a mess. It is highly organized. I don't know what you mean."

Then he smiled winningly (and I realized that he had been mocking me, and I scowled). "You actually thought you'd offended me, didn't you? You are pathetically easy to maneuver. I will direct you to the bathroom on the condition that you stop attempting to provoke me with your _painfully_ blunt repartees."

"Shut up," I said. "I'll find it myself."

"Oh no, I insist," he replied, and swept in front of me, brushing various bits of furniture and paper out of the way as he strode down an aisle, through the mass of his belongings. "It _is_ organized, however. And I'll thank you not to step anywhere I don't take you – even here, there are booby traps."

"_Even here there are booby traps_," I mimicked in a high voice under my breath. "_I am the Great Phantom and I can do no wrong. Yes, everyone adores me, even that stupid woman writer. She is writing a book about me, after all!_"

I was several feet behind him by this time, so it was doubtful he had heard me. He went around a corner and I picked up my pace. It would be bad if I lost him in this maze. He might not be lying about the traps.

* * *

><p>After we left the giant labyrinth of stuff, I saw that we had come out next to the organ, and next to it, in the stony side of the cavern, was a medium-sized brown door. It didn't have a handle, but the Phantom strode to it despite this and pushed it open with a hand.<p>

"Only I know the right place to put my fingers," he explained at my sniff of disdain. "It's not just a door."

"No," I agreed, "it's a murderous booby trap with spikes! If you touch it even with your littlest finger, it will crush you to death in its excruciating grip! You will not be able to breathe or move or even scream!"

"Like I said," the Phantom answered, "pathetic."

"I am wounded by your cunning wit," I said, stepping past him into the hallway. I was still holding my bag, and it was getting heavy. "Such pain enfolds me… Where is your bathroom? This is taking quite some time."

"If you would stop walking in front of me, I'd lead you to it," he said, going around me and grumbling under his breath.

I deciphered a few words: "Women. You're all the same."

"Men," I said. "Always complaining. Always injured. _She wouldn't let me walk in front of her! She tried to go first! Mommy, she's so unkind!_"

The Phantom ignored me with contempt and an impressively curled lip.

* * *

><p>We passed five doors by the time he found the one he wanted and gestured to it. "When you're done changing, I'll show you to the kitchen."<p>

"You must think I'm very stupid," I said, pausing in front of the door. "You could just give me directions."

"You are the one who said you were _so_ exhausted," he said back. "I was trying to spare you. Turn right at the end of this hallway and go in the second door on the left."

"All right," I said. "See you in a while."

I opened the door and was about to go in when I remembered something. "Wait. What about the ink? You said you had something to fix the stains with?"

"_Soap_ usually works," the Phantom said.

I glared at him. "Tell me what you actually had in mind, or I'll strangle you with the straps of my bag. I am not in the mood."

The Phantom looked down at me, lazily. "I tremble at the very idea."

"Come _on_," I said. "Please?"

"What, politeness? I thought the day would never come. Very well, then."

He paused dramatically.

"Soap."

"You're joking," I said, starting to lose my temper. "I thought you had some wonderful idea!"

"I did," he said. "It was soap. Lots of soap. Take a bath. The ink will come off after approximately two days."

"_Two days?_"

"Mmhmm," he agreed. "See you in a while."

I stood there, infuriated, while he walked off down the hallway, turned the corner, and left.

* * *

><p>After my very long bath, which only caused the ink to fade to a lighter shade of blue, I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, fiddling with the shoulders of my emerald green gown. It seemed much too formal, but it was the only one I had, besides my grey one, which was too dark for this house. And my nightgown, of course, but that was clearly implausible.<p>

I tied the sash for the sixth time, turned around to look at the back, and finally made myself go to the door and open it, letting the steam in the room billow out in foggy waves. The Phantom had hot water down here, which was amazing, as his house was so far beneath the Opera (how had he directed the pipes to his bathroom? It was probably through lawless behavior), and I was determined to use it all up just to spite him.

* * *

><p>He wasn't in the hallway waiting for me, which was fine, because I didn't really want to see him. I was still thinking about my plan for the masquerade, and I needed to complete it before I laid it all out for him to mock and poke at and make fun of.<p>

I thought some more as I went down the hallway, and I was still thinking when I turned the corner and located the second door on the left.

I paused in front of it. I had no desire to go inside. Frankly, the Phantom was overwhelming at times. It was getting hard to think of good comebacks to his derogatory digs.

I summoned my courage and took a deep breath. I was obviously the Phantom's equal: I could handle a little argument! I took hold of the doorknob and thrust the door open and went inside with my head held high.

* * *

><p>He was standing over a stove at the back of the kitchen, humming under his breath and stirring a pot of soup. There was a recipe book open next to him, and the air smelled heavenly. I looked around at the room, curious.<p>

Two wooden chairs, one wooden table, several stone counters, six or seven wooden cabinets, one fireplace, with the fire burning cheerily…

It seemed rather cozy in here. I sat down at the table, which was set for one, and picked up the spoon at my place. It was hand carved. In fact – I looked around at the furniture and cabinets – everything in here was hand carved, as the swirling leaf pattern repeated itself throughout the room.

There was carpet on the floor in here, unlike the stone hallway and the tiled bathroom, but the area near the stove and the cabinets was stone and the Phantom was still wearing his boots, so I decided against taking my shoes off, which I had been about to. I sighed and leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. The Phantom was still stirring his soup and humming, so I intended to nap while I could.

* * *

><p>"Dinner's ready," he said, a few minutes later, and I sat up with a start.<p>

"Oh. Sorry. Just taking a little nap."

"No matter," he said, putting a bowl of steaming soup in front of me with a flourish. "Potato soup. Enjoy."

I ignored his flourishing and took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.

"This isn't too bad."

"Your compliments are very precious to me," he replied sarcastically. "I'm off to bother Garmin. I was thinking I should drop another scathing note by his office. By the way, you can sleep in the bedroom two doors down and to the right from the kitchen."

I looked up after taking another delicious, hot bite, and saw that he was reaching for his cloak, which hung next to the door.

"But what about my plan?"

"You can tell me about it tomorrow morning. Or tomorrow afternoon." His eyes swept over my face again, and I felt something stir uncomfortably inside of me as he examined me with those sharp, glittering eyes. "You should probably sleep in."

"Thank you for your overwhelming concerns for my health," I said, snobbishly, and took another bite of soup.

He went towards the door, stopped, and glanced back at me. "Oh, and don't wander. I know you might have a strange desire to snoop – you are a writer, after all – but please attempt to control yourself. I wouldn't want you to end up in a drugged heap on the floor for the rest of your stay here."

"Of course, I would never intrude upon one's personal business," I said. "Quite unlike another someone I happen to know."

"Goodnight," he said (but I saw him smile, I know I did), and he went out, shutting the door behind him.

"Whatever," I said, and ate the rest of my soup.

* * *

><p>The bedroom was very fine indeed: there was a magnificent four-poster bed with deep blue curtains (which reminded me of my ink stains, which wasn't too nice, actually), fancy tapestries on the walls, and a thick, lush carpet that sank pleasantly under my feet as I walked inside.<p>

I pulled my nightgown out of my bag, shut the door (no lock, pity) and changed. Then I took my hair down, sighing with relief as the pins slid from my hair, and pulled the thick curls into a braid. I sat down on the bed, dropped my bag on the floor, and pulled back the covers, yawning skull-crackingly as exhaustion swept over me for the thousandth time.

Then I got into bed and went to sleep.

* * *

><p>I dreamed about Claire: she was standing on the roof of the Opera House, holding Luke's hand and laughing merrily, her face bright with amusement, her long hair twirling in the wind like tendrils of black smoke. It was nighttime, and there were candles everywhere on the stone cobblestones. I hurried through them, trying not to step on their flames. I had just come from the rooftop door, and I was far from the two silhouettes on the roof.<p>

As I came closer, my heart leapt into my throat. Claire and her murderer were perched on the edge of the stone _railing_: the wind buffeted them gently, causing them to sway hypnotically back and forth. I tried to move faster, to get to her, but the candles were growing larger, and I nearly fell into one of them, its massive white side dripping with hot wax, and had to slow down to avoid it.

As I finally made it through the last of the candles, I saw Claire lose her footing and snatch for Luke's shoulder – she missed, but she managed to pull herself upright again with his hand. She was still laughing, but it was noiseless; my dream self couldn't hear anything except for the ceaseless rush of chaotic wind. The candles behind me rippled in the wind, their flames went out, and they blew away in a mess of white liquid, streaming away into the night like ribbons.

The wind was fierce against me too; it pulled at my hair and tore at my clothes, but I hurried towards my sister, terrified for her. Claire was going to fall if she kept messing around. And Luke was dangerous, why was she with him? I thought I had told her to stay away from him.

Neither of the two had seen me yet, but as I moved closer, Luke's head snapped up. He smiled directly into my eyes, and his blue eyes were knowing.

I started to run, but the wind wrapped around me and held me back, and Luke let go of Claire's hand and gently pushed her backwards over the railing.

Claire's eyes went wide: she stopped laughing and opened her mouth in a delicate O, and then she toppled off the rooftop and vanished into the howling darkness below.

I ran to the edge, and Luke vanished, blowing away like the candles.

Mercifully, I woke as soon as I reached the railing, and I did not see Claire's body crumpled on the pavement, seventeen stories below.

* * *

><p>I sat up in bed, shaking, and stared around in the darkness, swiping tears off my face with the back of my cold hand, and reaching for a candle, but there wasn't one on the side table. I felt around some more, found a dusty packet of matches, and lit one.<p>

Oh yes. I was in the Phantom's house.

It was very quiet in the bedroom, a deafening sort of silence, and I blew out my match, because the room was empty. The only sound came from the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, and the great gulping noises of my breathing.

I lay back down, pulled the blankets closer around me, and tried not to cry. I didn't know if I had spoken in my sleep; I didn't want the Phantom to wake (if he was sleeping) and hear me.

If only I had found Claire in time. If only she had eloped with someone who truly loved her. How was I ever going to survive without her? I couldn't do all this on my own!

I wished, hopelessly, that I was home.

I turned over, and eventually, miraculously, I fell back asleep. I did not wake until the morning.


	23. Chapter 23: Red and White Roses

_Wow you people are so, so, so nice in the reviews! I was crazily happy when I read them! Thank you so much!_

_Yes, I am updating like a madwoman again (wow, again with the madness parallel - hmm), so, just warning you, this may not happen all the time. But it is right now! _

_So...  
><em>

_Enjoy reading!_

* * *

><p>The next morning, I got dressed, did my hair, and left the bedroom, glancing at the grandfather clock as I passed. Nine in the morning. Perhaps the Phantom was in the kitchen.<p>

He wasn't, but he had left me a plate of food: rolls, jelly, butter, and a mug of hot chocolate. There was a note next to the plate.

I sat down and unfolded the crisp paper.

_I apologize for not being here in person: I had some business to attend to. I will be back around ten in the morning or a little later. If the hot chocolate is cold, you can warm it up on the stove._

_Madame Giry showed up last night and demanded to see you, so I told her she could come back in the morning, which she will probably do, so I'm writing this down in case you hear odd noises. It's only her and I having a discussion while I escort her into the house. _

_I'll hear your plan as soon as I return._

_-Phantom_

_If only you were this polite in person_, I thought, _perhaps we would get along better._ I put the note down and pulled my plate toward me. I was starving.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry, true to her word, showed up at the same time the Phantom did, and I could hear them arguing noisily outside the house. It sounded as though she was talking (rather loudly) about Luke.<p>

I got up from the sofa in the dining room and went down the hall, and the Phantom opened the outside door and saw me, and made a face.

"She's annoyed," he mouthed at me, and I raised my eyebrows.

"I completely sympathize," I said. "Madame Giry? Are you talking about Luke?"

Madame Giry swept past the Phantom into the hallway and looked me over. "I suppose you finally managed to finagle _him_ into letting you down here."

"Um," I said, at a loss for words, for the first time in quite a while. "I have no idea what you mean."

"I told her about our deal," the Phantom said, shutting the door and leaning against it. "She was rather upset."

"I only came down here because of my face!" I said, wondering which deal she was talking about, seeing as we had made two bargains in the past week. "It's blue, haven't you noticed?"

Madame Giry sniffed. "A likely story."

Then, because no one had offered her a chair, she swept down the hall past me and into the kitchen and pulled out a chair at the table and sat down, thrusting her cane under the table. I followed her inside, and the Phantom wandered in behind me.

"So tell me about this plan of yours," she said. "From what the Phantom told me, it sounded a little holey in places."

"I haven't even told him about it yet!" I said, shooting the man a glare. "I was going to this morning, but he left."

"Madame," said the Phantom from his spot against the wall, "I know this is all very funny to you, but to Katelienne it is a matter of some importance. Why don't you give her a chance to explain her ideas?"

Madame Giry stared at me impatiently.

"Well," I said, sighing and desperately looking around for inspiration, "I'm still not quite finished. I'll tell you what I've come up with, but first I want to know what's going on upstairs."

"The Opera is running just fine without you," said Madame Giry, pitilessly. "Don't you have any tea in this house of yours?" she asked the Phantom.

The Phantom went to the stove and began making a pot, talking over his shoulder.

"Garmin went off drinking last night, and no one has noticed you've left except for Madame Giry. From what Garmin's buddies say, he still plans to ask for your hand in marriage, which makes absolutely no sense, seeing as you are not all at interested in him. And the masquerade is rapidly approaching, so people are running around finding things to wear, and arguing about the so-called 'man in black' who broke into Garmin's office two nights ago. Half the populace believes it was me, the other half are not so sure."

"So…" I said, tapping my fingers against the table, "Garmin is clueless about his journal booby trap."

"He knows it's been taken, though," said Madame Giry, who had been staring at the Phantom's back as though she was willing him to hurry up. "And the question remains: why did he booby trap it in the first place? As far as he knows, no one believes he was Monett. No one would go looking for it."

"Yes. But I think he booby trapped it just in case – he wanted to make sure that if anyone suspected him, he'd have a way to find out who. But he's wrecking his own plan by not being at the Opera to find out whom."

"As I've said before, the man is an idiot," the Phantom remarked. "Madame, your tea will be ready in a minute. Please refrain from making marks in the wood with your nails."

Madame Giry gave him a withering stare, and he sighed and shut up.

"Katelienne," she said, commandingly.

I glanced at her. I had been thinking. "Hmm?"

"Etiquette is lost among youth nowadays," she commented darkly. "Tell us your plan."

"I'm still working on it," I said. "What should I do with this ring?" I took Luke's ring out of my pocket and handed it to her.

Madame Giry put it on her finger and looked carefully at it, turning it around to look at the play of light on the metal. "Very pretty."

She handed it back. "I'd sell it. You'd get a good price for a ring like that."

"Ha," I said. "And then I'd go to jail for selling stolen goods. I have half a mind to toss it in the lake."

"I could put it back in Garmin's office, if you wish," the Phantom said, giving Madame Giry her cup of tea. "I'm sure it would rub him the wrong way if someone returned it, and he didn't know whom. He'd feel weak, like he couldn't find it himself in the first place. As he should – he had the use of several policemen and even a spy."

"Spy?"

"Cooper. He's been chatting with Garmin every night about the state of the Opera house and what he overheard from so-and-so and their best friend."

"Goodness, Katelienne, what is wrong with you?"

I had leapt up from my chair and nearly knocked Madame Giry's cup of tea out of her hand. She and the Phantom both stared at me.

"I showed Cooper Claire's will," I said, through clenched teeth. "I wanted to make sure it was valid. He _must_ have told Luke about it. That was why the journal was booby trapped."

"When was that?" the Phantom asked, looking stunned. "I never saw you do that."

"You must have been busy or something," I said. My knees felt weak. "It was only last week. By now Luke knows about me. He knows that I was Claire's sister."

"But the man can't do anything about it," Madame Giry interjected, looking from the Phantom to me. "You're a prominent part of this Opera! If something happens to you, the headlines will be everywhere. People will start asking questions, and Luke can't have that. He has to keep a low profile."

"I still can't believe that Cooper is working with Luke," I said. "How on earth did Luke manage that? Cooper is such a nice man…"

"Well, not anymore," said Madame Giry. "Thank you for the tea, Erik, it was lovely. Now, Katelienne, please tell me something of your plan. Anything at all, I beg you. I believe I have waited you long enough. You have had more than enough time to think."

But I wasn't listening to her, I was considering something. I turned to the Phantom.

"Can you imitate voices?"

"Can I imitate voices?" said the Phantom, in my voice, and I frowned in surprise.

"Please don't do that."

"No, I insist," he said, in Madame Giry's voice now, and she gave him another scathing stare.

"Control yourself. What are you asking, precisely, Katelienne? I don't have all morning to sit down here."

"All right," I said. "All right, you can imitate my voice; I want you to imitate Claire's. Hers is a little lower than mine – but otherwise our voices sound almost exactly alike. Could you try to do hers?"

The Phantom stared at me, then opened his mouth.

"Is this about right?"

It was as though she was in the room, and I felt abruptly nauseous, and then, as though I was about to cry. I forced myself to keep my face composed, and felt for the back of my chair.

"Yes, yes, that's fine. Don't do it anymore."

Madame Giry's eyes found mine as I sat; there was something deeply sad in them, something almost reassuring. I smiled at her.

The Phantom cleared his throat. "So when am I going to-"

"I'm not sure yet," I admitted, coming back to myself and cutting him off. "I was thinking you could mimic her voice during the masquerade – you know, right when he comes down the staircase at the end of the night and asks some lucky lady for the final dance."

"You think he will ask you?" Madame Giry said.

"Maybe." I shrugged. "Anyways, as he's about to ask, I thought you could start talking and scare the wits out of him."

"You really think that's going to make him confess?"

"Well, no, but I don't really have any other ideas. By the time the masquerade is here, Luke is going to be rather in over his head, right? Because we're going to mess up his rehearsals and his performances, and lose him money, and generally cause him a whole lot of trouble."

The Phantom looked down at me. "I suppose."

I frowned at this. He sounded unsure. "But you haven't started yet, have you? You weren't there at the last rehearsal."

Madame Giry turned a suspicious eye on me. "So that's why you were there. To see if he'd fulfill his part of the bargain."

"Yes, some of his part, anyways," I said. "Why weren't you there, Phantom?"

He handed me a cup of tea. "Instead of disturbing rehearsal time, I'm going to disrupt only the performance nights. That way, Luke will be appropriately shocked. He will not be expecting my intrusion."

"The audiences will be thrilled at your return," Madame Giry pointed out. "I hope you have an idea in mind to keep them away."

"I do, actually," he said, sitting down on the sofa. "I will focus most of my _attention_ on the audience. I'll leave the performers be."

Madame Giry and I spoke at the same time.

"That is ridiculous!"

"What are you going to do to them?"

The Phantom smiled at our irate faces. "Only the usual. I'll drop the chandelier, and set the place on fire, and luckily, no one will ever come back again."

"All right, I'm only joking, don't kill me with your dagger eyes, Madame. I'll simply throw things at them (rotten eggs, bits of scenery, maybe some cake) and talk loudly over the performers' singing, and make sure their intermission is very uncomfortable and that their patience is very thin. Then I will do something spectacular and horribly wrong and they will die of misery."

"This had better be worth it," grumbled Madame Giry, "because it seems that it will be a very long time before any audience returns to this Opera after the end of this week."

I swallowed a mouthful of tea. "But what are we going to do about Cooper? I have to go talk to him."

"No, you don't," said the Phantom. "I doubt that asking him about Garmin's hold on him will cause him to open up to you and explain all. I'd leave him alone."

"It may be a good idea, actually," said Madame Giry thoughtfully. (I looked triumphantly at the Phantom.) "You should feed him false information and see what happens. If he reports it to Garmin, we'll know for sure that he is on his side. If he doesn't – we can trust him. Slightly, of course."

"But what hold could Garmin have on him?" I asked, to no one in particular. "Maybe Garmin's blackmailing him."

"It's likely," the Phantom agreed. "Anyways, Madame, I think the important part of this conversation is over, so you can return to the surface."

Madame Giry got up with a disdainful air, and took hold of her cane. "Thank you for the tea."

"You're welcome," he said, and offered her his arm. "I'll escort you to the door."

"Thank you again," she said, and bestowed a small smile on me. "Good morning, Katelienne. I'll keep Luke off your trail. That is, if he's recovered from his hangover. The last I heard of him, he was in his room with the door locked and a sign on it. Something about no visitors."

I smiled back. "Thank you, very much. I'll see you soon, I hope. As soon as the last of this ink washes off."

The two went out the door, and I busied myself with washing up the cups, still mulling ideas over in my head.

If I took a bath this afternoon, and one tonight, and one tomorrow morning, I'd be back in my own room before Thursday. The masquerade ball was on Saturday. I may have enough time after all.


	24. Chapter 24: Rue

_Hi readers!_

_I hope you are having a delightful weekend! If you want to make mine just as delightful, click on that Review button on the bottom of this chapter! I will be so thrilled!_

_Enjoy reading!_

* * *

><p>Later that day I stood near the lake, turning Luke's ring over in my fingers, watching the black water ripple away into the distance. The candlelight glittered off the lake, casting golden lights on the water, making the liquid shimmer enticingly, and I felt myself drawn back into the solitude of my memories.<p>

I knew how to swim; my father had taught me one summer while on vacation in England. The only problem was that I hated diving: I always felt stupid, raising my arms over my head and pointing my fingertips into the air, and I had never managed to make a perfect descent into the water. But this was easily remedied, although it made me look inept – I only had to jump in feet first. My new method was very easy, but my parents (and Claire especially) had laughed at me.

I wasn't considering swimming now, as the water looked frigid and the air was still cold, but I _was_ considering throwing the ring into the lake. The Phantom's notion that returning it to Luke would cause him grief did not seem altogether plausible in my book, but perhaps men were different about those things.

Heaven knows, Luke was.

I held the ring over the water, as though to drop a penny in and make a wish, letting my hand hover in midair, thinking about letting it simply fall.

Then I pulled it back. The ring was quite pretty, after all. Maybe I would follow Madame Giry's advice... Or maybe I would simply keep it.

This inane series of thoughts spurred me over the edge. I drew back my arm and threw the ring high into the air, watching it arc over the lake and sink with a tiny splash into the middle of the water, disturbing the candles' reflections with thick, concentric circles.

Now I would not have to worry about it anymore, unless the Phantom took it into his head to retrieve it from the bottom of the lake. I wondered if he could swim.

I was imagining the Phantom flailing about in the water, arms and legs akimbo, face screwed up in intense concentration, when I heard soft footsteps behind me.

It was probably the masked man himself, so I made a massive effort to control my facial expression (I was laughing silently) before I turned around.

* * *

><p>"What are you doing out here?" he inquired. He had changed from his outfit of solid black into a white shirt and dark breeches. He wasn't wearing his normal mask: this one was gray.<p>

"Throwing that blasted ring into the lake," I answered, wondering why he had changed. Maybe these were his stay-at-home clothes. "I need to talk to you. I was wondering where you got to."

"I've been busy," he said, which did not answer my (implied) question. "What do you need to talk about?"

"The masquerade," I said, ticking them off on my fingers, "Luke's money problems, Cooper, the journal, Claire's will, and the rehearsals."

"Why Cooper?"

"I'm going to go talk to him," I said. I had known he would argue with me about this. "I want to see what he'll say. I'm not going to tell him lies, either, like Madame Giry suggested. He likes me. He'll talk to me."

The Phantom's face was simultaneously incredulous and disdainful. "You actually think he'll tell you why he's helping Luke?"

"It's worth a try. As far as we know, he hasn't told Luke anything about me."

"That is ludicrous. I have no idea why you think asking him point blank is plausible. You shouldn't go."

"Well, it's not up to you," I said, feeling a little irked. "I can go if I want to."

"No, you can't. You'll scare him off. Do you really want to jeopardize everything over your stupid idea?"

I bristled, angry now. "It is not a 'stupid' idea. It worked on you, remember? All I had to do was ask and you told me everything."

Apparently I had hit a nerve. His eyes narrowed, and he took a few steps in my direction before he caught himself and stopped.

I stood my ground, still stung by his words, and said, without thinking, "I only said three questions before you told me all about Christine, and the Viscount, and the whole of that year. Who says it won't work for Cooper?"

"I never said I told you _everything_," the Phantom growled. "You made that assumption on your own."

"Well, you told me enough," I said. "Besides, why wouldn't you have told me everything? I thought you wanted this book to be an accurate portrayal of your dashing deeds."

The Phantom made an effort to control himself. He turned away to the lake.

* * *

><p>His voice was grim when he spoke again.<p>

"Cooper will not simply give in to your demands. You are very… convincing when you want to be, but this man is under a considerable amount of pressure. Garmin has a firm hold on him, otherwise he would not be here. I suggest you compromise."

I was feeling rather badly about mocking him about his interview, so I asked the question he clearly wanted me to ask.

"How so?"

He took a breath. "If I were to come with you, Cooper would be unlikely to make a run for it. He would find it necessary to stay if he valued his life. Of course, I would not harm him – but everyone in the Opera believes me capable of great violence. Cooper, undoubtedly, believes the same."

I sat down on the cold stones and thought. The Phantom remained standing in front of the water, his eyes on the stalactites that hung from the ceiling like great granite icicles, and made no sound.

"All right," I said, at last. "We'll send him a note, presumably from me, asking him to meet me on the roof tomorrow night. Or from you, maybe."

"Not from you," the Phantom said. "And not from me. Only write the date and time and meeting place. He doesn't need to know whom he's meeting, or who sent the note to him. The less information, the better."

I got up and brushed dirt off my skirts. "Fine. I'll go write it now, then."

* * *

><p>I had almost reached the door when he spoke again.<p>

"I didn't lie to you."

"I know," I said, surprised. "Didn't I just say that-"

"I would appreciate it if you refrained from mocking me about it."

I had noticed that he slipped into formal speech when he exhibited profound emotion. He was still standing in front of the lake, back straight, arms folded.

"I won't," I promised. "I apologize."

He didn't answer, so I opened the door and went inside.

* * *

><p>The day passed quickly after that: I made a list of questions that I needed answers to (these were not for Cooper, just for me) and wrote Cooper his note. I made sure to disguise my handwriting, in case Cooper knew what mine looked like.<p>

_Go to the roof at nine pm tomorrow night. Otherwise, you will regret it._

* * *

><p>"I don't think this will do," the Phantom said when I showed it to him. We had come to an unspoken agreement that we would not discuss the previous argument, as we were both still a little angry with each other. "Regret what? What will he regret if he doesn't show up to a strange meeting at nighttime on the roof?"<p>

"All right, all right, I'll try again," I said, and stalked off to my room to rewrite it.

* * *

><p><em>It would be appreciated if you would come to the roof at nine pm tomorrow night.<em>

"Definitely not," he said. "Too polite. Very boring. Try again."

"You know what?" I said, putting my hand on my hip. "You write it, if you're the expert. Amaze me."

We were in the kitchen, after lunchtime, and I was feeling tired and wishing I could go take a nap. The Phantom took the pen from me and the paper and sat down at the table. I sat down on the sofa and waited, putting my elbows on my knees and my chin on my folded hands.

There was a moment of scratching, of pen against paper, and then he got up and handed me the note.

"Here."

I read it.

"This is almost exactly like my first one!"

"Not at all," the Phantom said. "I seem to recall yours used commands. I only _suggest_."

* * *

><p><em>Monsieur Cooper,<em>

_Your presence is requested on the roof tomorrow night at 9 pm._

_Very sincerely,_

_A Useful Friend._

* * *

><p>"A Useful Friend," I said. "As if anyone would be stupid enough to follow directions from A Useful Friend."<p>

"_I_ like it," the Phantom said, snatching it back from me. "He'll be there."

I doubted this. "I have a different idea. I think we should collaborate. I know Cooper better than you do, but you can write more threatening notes (I mean, you do it every day), so we should write it together."

The Phantom grimaced, sat down at the table again, pushed some paper towards me, and tossed me a pen, which I caught.

"I suppose we can _try_."

* * *

><p>We eventually managed to write a suitably offensive, and yet intriguing, note and the Phantom left the house with it in his pocket, but not before he informed me again not to wander around. I told him (again) that I was perfectly capable of being a good house guest, and we parted on argumentative terms, both of us pleased with our respective witty rebuttals.<p>

I took another bath around five that afternoon, and was toweling my hair off in front of the mirror (having gotten dressed already, this time in my gray gown - and the ink had faded to a dim purple, thank God, it was almost gone for good) when I heard suspicious sounds emanating from the hallway.

I put down my towel, whisked my hair into a haphazard braid, and picked up my knife, which was lying handily on the side of the sink.

Then I opened the bathroom door a tiny crack and peered outside.

"A kitty!" I said, delightedly, and the cat herself hissed at me and backed down the hallway.

She was completely black and appeared to be totally wild: her fur was a mess of tangles and dirt, and her eyes were stark white.

"Oh, poor kitty," I said, reverting to baby speak in the presence of a feline, as I was prone to do. "What's wrong with you? Are you blind?"

The cat spat at me again, turned tail and raced down the hallway, whipping around the corner in a blur of black fur.

I did not give chase, although I wanted to very much. Cats were my favorite animals, but I knew enough not to run around after them and scare them to death, as some people were apt to do.

* * *

><p>After I finished doing my hair again (braids were boring; I wore them every night, so I wore it down and let it curl around my face) I went into the kitchen and looked around for something that the cat might want to eat.<p>

"Hmmm… We have cheese… We have fish… We have bread and butter and fruit. If I were a cat, I would eat… this!"

I snatched the fish out of the icebox and set to work grilling it on the stove.

The cat, after a few minutes of delicious smells, crept into the room and hid under the table.

I pretended that I hadn't seen her. I poked at the fish with a fork.

The cat shimmied towards the stove, body bent low to the ground, shoulders hunched, obviously trying to get closer to the enticing smell.

I dropped a bit of fish on the ground, about a foot away from me, and the cat shot forward and snatched it up.

* * *

><p>The Phantom came home to find me sitting on the floor with a plate of fish, petting the bedraggled cat and leaning against the counter. The kitchen smelled like seafood and there were fish scales on the floor, which had been pristine until now, and the cat had broken a jug when she jumped onto the counter (which was why we now were sitting on the floor), so there were bits of pottery everywhere.<p>

"I see you've met Wednesday," he said.

I glanced up in surprise. I hadn't heard him come in. The cat raked her paw (without her claws out, thankfully) across my hand, and I gave her another bit of greasy fish flesh.

"I suppose I have," I said, wiping my hand on one of the Phantom's serviettes, which I had taken from his cabinet. "Come over here and tell me about her. I'll clean up the kitchen in a little bit."

The Phantom acquiesced, sat down on the floor next to us, and Wednesday (was that really her name?) stopped leaning against me and purring madly, and climbed into his lap. His hand went down and stroked her head; I smiled to myself and handed him the plate. It looked like the Phantom wasn't as alone as I had thought.


	25. Chapter 25: Fungus

_Reviews, wherefore art thou? Perhaps you could send me one or two or three or so?_

_This is a very important chapter! REAAAAAAAAAAAAAD IT!  
><em>

_Yay! I am so excited!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Cooper stared at the note on his desk. He was sitting in his room next to the open window, and the breeze blew through the curtains, tugging playfully at the little piece of paper.<p>

He picked it up, opened it again, reread it, and dropped it again.

Should he go?

Or should he tell Luke?

His mind was made up almost instantly: Luke was still hung-over, locked in his room, and, most likely, having a temper tantrum over the last rude note he'd gotten from the Phantom. He didn't need to know about this one, tiny meeting.

* * *

><p>I fiddled with the hem of my skirts, watching the breeze swirl the dead leaves into a sort of maelstrom, and wondered if Cooper had gotten the note. What had he decided?<p>

If I were Cooper, what would I have done?

_You would have hid in your room,_ I thought. _You would have thought the note was creepy. Yes, you would have done the sensible thing. Like usual._

The Phantom scuffed the tip of his boot against the cobblestones, and I looked up at him. He was wearing the same outfit he had when I had first seen him, along with the black mask from the staircase incident. All of these combined to make him look rather dangerous, along with the muscles alternately tensing and relaxing in his back and shoulders as he flexed his hands.

I could see these muscles because he had taken the cloak off, and slung it over the wing of an angel, and because he was facing away from me. He was in charge of watching the door. I was in charge of questions.

He said, "Let me see if I have this whole plan correct, as you explained it somewhat out of order."

I opened my mouth to interject (I had explained the plan perfectly! What was he talking about?) but he went on, drowning out anything I might have said.

"Cooper gets here, I scare him to the point of near-unconsciousness, and you ask random questions. After which he loses it and runs away, whereupon I go after him and bring him back. Whereupon you nag him some more, after which he decides he must tell you everything or die, and thus, he does so. Talk, I mean, not die."

"That was concise," I said, dryly. "And I sound so sensible and intelligent in this version. Cooper is not that stupid. He'll do what I say. He trusts me."

The Phantom chose to pretend he hadn't heard my last sentence (which I knew he disagreed with, as he had already taken exception to it earlier), and folded his arms imposingly over his chest.

"Where is he, anyways?" I said, getting up from my seat on the base of my statue. "It couldn't have taken him that long to read it. You said he was sitting in his room when you slid it under his door."

"He was," the Phantom said, sounding bored. "You already asked me that. Twice."

"Well, I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that I'm freezing and this is taking all night. He had better be here soon."

"I'd offer you my cloak," he said, "but you'd only refuse it."

"I probably would," I said, thoughtfully. "Thank you for sparing me from having to say no."

* * *

><p>Cooper hurried up the staircase, holding the stitch in his side, and stopped momentarily to suck in a few much-needed breaths. He wished, briefly, that he had gone to bed instead of on this wild goose chase, but he didn't want to waste time now, especially since he was so close. He took another deep breath, mounted the last of the stairs, and pushed the door to the roof open.<p>

There was a whoosh as he went through the doorway, and he looked up in surprise and horror, fully expecting to see Luke.

"Come sit down, why don't you?" said an eerily familiar voice, and Cooper moved backwards, reaching for the doorknob in a panic, but not finding it.

It was the Phantom, he knew it was. Curse it, he shouldn't have come up here. He was going to die.

"I wouldn't do that," said the voice again, but now it was behind him and Cooper froze and stopped trying to locate the door.

"What – what do you want?" he asked, praying that he would reach his knife in time, and he was preparing to snatch for it when an entirely different voice broke in.

"I think," said this voice, (Cooper stopped glancing around wildly for the Phantom, and focused his attention on the center of the rooftop) "I think we should all calm down. Cooper, why don't you come over here? I'd like to speak to you."

"I would go," growled the Phantom's voice, and Cooper went.

* * *

><p>"Katelienne," Cooper said. He was standing a few feet away, his shoulders hunched as if he wanted the wind to pick him up and blow him away. His voice was tired.<p>

I stared at him, hard. "I know you're working for Luke. And I know who Luke was. So do you."

Cooper swallowed, made a small effort to shake his head, sighed resignedly, and nodded. "John Monett. Yes."

The Phantom was leaning against the winged horse statue, a few feet behind me, and I could hear his surprised intake of breath at Cooper's rapid descent into truth-telling. Obviously, he knew nothing about my interviewing skills.

"I want you to start at the beginning," I said. "Clearly, you're not going to leave this rooftop until I have what I want."

Cooper's eyes shifted from me to the Phantom, and his face noticeably paled. "He's real after all, isn't he?" he asked me. "And all this time, I thought it was a great big joke…"

"He's very real," I agreed. "Now. Tell me about John Monett."

Cooper's story was long and involved, and it was an effort for me not to get out my notebook and start writing things down, but I managed to control my twitching fingers and only listen.

He had met John Monett three years ago, just after John had married Claire.

"His wife was beautiful," he told me. We were sitting on the bases of our respective statues now, (Cooper was perched underneath an avenging angel – how appropriate –) and the Phantom still leaned against mine, his fingers brushing my shoulder every now and then as if to tell me that he was still there.

Cooper continued, "Her name was Claire. She had the most beautiful hair – dark waves, like a fairy tale princess, and her eyes… Her eyes were lovely. John was happiest when she was around. It was as though he was a completely different person."

"How so?"

I watched as Cooper's eyes flickered, went dim. "I was a lawyer back then. It was Paris; criminals were everywhere, and I had helped a couple of them out in court, made sure they went free. It was only over money, of course. Nothing serious. But if anyone found out – I would lose my license. I would lose everything. And John knew about it. Somehow, he had found out."

"Was he your friend?"

"No. You see, we had first met at a café; Claire wasn't with him, and he had gotten a little drunk. I was good at calming people down – I escorted him out, as he was bothering a few of the customers, and he looked me in the eye and said, 'You're the one they call Wordy.' "

"Wordy?" What a stupid name.

"On account of the fast talking I had to do to free my clients. I was well known, you see. But John – he knew more than most. More than anyone else. He took hold of my shirt that night at the café, and he said, he said, 'I know what you did for Fontaine.' And that was it. He smiled and let go of my shirt and walked away. He hadn't been drunk at all; it was only a trick to get me outside and alone."

Cooper paused and looked up at the sky, shaking his head as if to ward off old ghosts.

"Of course, I went looking for him. I wanted to make sure he wouldn't tell anyone. I was prepared to threaten him, to bribe him, to rough him up – anything to make sure he wouldn't tell. I knocked on his apartment door, and his wife opened it instead."

I caught my breath. Claire had never told me about Cooper.

"She asked me who I was; I lied, I told her I was one of John's friends, and she invited me in without a second glance. She was so happy that John had made a friend: she offered me tea and cookies and little cakes, told me to sit down and rest my feet. I sat down, drank my tea, made pleasant small talk. I knew that I couldn't hurt John now – his wife was like an angel. She would be completely crushed if anything happened to him."

I stiffened. "And when John came back?"

"I was still there. He opened the door, he saw me, and he smiled. Then he went along with my charade, calling me Martin and pretending that we had known each other forever. In fact, he did know quite a lot about me – it was disturbing, so I left as soon as possible and vowed to catch him alone next time."

"What about Claire? Was she happy to see him?"

Cooper sighed. "I'll never forget how lovingly she looked at him when he came home that night. It was like he was the only man alive."

I tensed up, feeling sick.

The Phantom spoke curtly from over my head. "Spare us the quaint similes. Give us the facts."

"All right, sorry. Look, after that, nothing happened for a long time. I saw John every once in a while and avoided him like the devil: I had decided he was up to no good, and I wanted nothing to do with him. Unfortunately, about a year and a half later, John showed up on my doorstep."

"What did he come to see you about?" I asked.

Cooper stared at the cobblestones. "He took a while to explain, but he was covered in grime and soot and muck, as if he had been climbing up chimneys or something, so I knew something was very wrong. He sat down on my couch and said that he had killed his wife."

I had been expecting something like this, but not _this_ blunt. I closed my eyes in pain and brought my hands up to my face.

* * *

><p>The Phantom's cloak brushed the edge of my cheek. He had stepped in front of me, hiding me from view, and it was his voice I heard next.<p>

"He bribed you to keep him out of prison."

"Yes. He had strangled Claire in a drunken rage, he told me, but there were no witnesses, so if I argued it right, I could keep him from execution. I came up with the story: Claire had attacked him (insanity, I said, ran in her family) and John had fought back in self defense. Her head hit the corner of the fireplace, and she died from the injury."

"But her body? The bruises on her neck?"

"Oh, only the landlady's drunk son and an inspector saw the body, so I bribed the inspector, and the son – well, I made sure no one talked to him. No one thought of questioning the people in Claire's apartment, so no one else heard the rumors about her demise."

"The grave?" I spoke up again. "Who arranged for the grave?"

"I did," Cooper said, from behind the Phantom. "I paid for the headstone. And I thought of the inscription; it was ironic, I know, but I had to put something on it or the police would get suspicious. You have to understand – my life would have been ruined if John had told anyone about me. He had left one of his friends a letter, he said, with all the cases I had falsified. My life would have been over, Katelienne. I would have lost everything."

"You covered up John's murder," I said, and I got to my feet. "You were his accomplice. May you rot in hell."

* * *

><p>I didn't know what I would have done if the Phantom hadn't been there to stop me: I wasn't thinking at all anymore, only flashes of memories. A dim red haze had swept over my vision.<p>

_Claire laughing at a party… Claire hugging me, telling me she was so happy to be finally going to Paris… Claire's letter, the one that started with: "Kate, I've fallen in love! His name… Oh, but I can't tell you yet. It will be a surprise! I know you'll never guess who!"… _

_Claire's face as a little girl, her tiny voice and bright eyes, her delicate, pale skin, her wicked smile… Claire, dancing with some boy during a masquerade, her head thrown back in delight, winking at me as I caught her eye, twirling around in circles on the grass outside, catching grasshoppers in the meadow, wishing on stars, telling me she would have twenty children, that I would be her maid of honor at her wedding: "And the second prettiest one there! The first will be me! Oh, I'm only joking, Kate, wipe that glare off your face!"_

* * *

><p>"Katelienne!"<p>

Cooper was lying on the ground at my feet, and there was blood dripping down his cheek, oozing from his forehead. I was holding a rock (where had it come from?) and the Phantom was gripping my left arm, twisting it painfully behind my back.

"Put the rock down."

I dropped it. I was staring at Cooper's blood-drenched forehead. What had happened? Was he even alive?

Then the man at my feet groaned as he began to regain consciousness, and I stepped away from him, colliding with the Phantom, who released my arm.

I turned to look at him, ignoring the pain in my arm. I had intended to ask him what had happened, but as soon as I met his eyes, I said something else entirely.

"Luke will ask him about the cut on his forehead."

"I'll handle it," the Phantom said, sounding dangerous. "Go sit down over there, where I can keep an eye on you."

I went.

* * *

><p>Cooper had pulled himself into a sitting position; the Phantom crouched down next to him and began speaking softly.<p>

A minute passed, then two, and Cooper nodded, almost frantically, and nodded again. "Yes, yes, I won't say anything, I promise." His voice was, if possible, even shakier than when he had opened the rooftop door.

The Phantom rose lithely to his feet, and Cooper scrambled to his feet and scurried across the rooftop, not even pausing to shoot me a glance. He opened the door, shut it behind him, and his footsteps faded away into stillness.

There was a rush of wind across the rooftop, a pause, and then silence.

* * *

><p>The Phantom turned, slowly, to look at me. "Well, I suppose that went well. Despite everything."<p>

I got to my feet. "Yes. Despite everything."

My voice was low. I had never thought Cooper was capable of this. I had never thought _anyone_ was capable of this. I drew a hand down my face, took a deep breath, and forced the words out that would break (at least, momentarily) the spell of misery that had descended upon the roof.

"You messed up the plan."

The joke was weak, but he crossed the rooftop anyway, and put his arms around me.


	26. Chapter 26: Chestnut Blossom

I pulled away first. I was trembling, and cold, but I knew enough to know that I didn't want this to happen now, not here, and not before we finished with Luke.

Luke was the priority.

"We have to get a written confession out of Cooper," I said, clenching my fists in exasperation. "We have to get it now. I can't believe I didn't think of that earlier."

The Phantom turned towards the staircase. "Let me tell him."

I nodded; he was as tense as strung wire; I could see it in the set of his shoulders. "Go ahead. I'm going back to my room."

He slipped through the rooftop door and was gone. I sat down on the nearest statue and wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop shaking. It was not only from the cold - the shaking was more a combination of deep emotions and weariness.

* * *

><p>I knew the Phantom was probably angry with me: he had shown genuine affection for me for first time with his hug. And I had quickly snubbed him. But this was understandable, I knew it was. I was feeling weak and confused, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to pursue this relationship yet, if it was one, and I knew I had to get rid of Luke first, before I did anything else.<p>

Luke had to be dealt with…

And the Phantom…

The Phantom was a complex individual. He had been broken by Christine Daae's rejection, and before that, by something to do with his face (I could only guess at this – his mask hid so much more than simply the flesh, whatever it looked like). He was only held together by slim wrappings of sarcasm, malice, wariness, a small amount of compassion, and a thirst for justice.

Those things – and his odd partnership with me.

At least, I believed that he relied - somewhat - on our partnership. He had defended me numerous times over the past week, to numerous people, and the little things he had done added up to something substantial. At least in terms of what he had not done for others before.

A cold wind swept across the rooftop, sending goosebumps up my arms and down my legs. I got up and hurried to the staircase, my brain whirring madly.

The Phantom, if he still wanted to talk to me, would be waiting in my room after his little encounter with Cooper. I expected him to break the tension with several cold lines of sarcasm about my so-called "plan" and its aftermath.

But I hoped my room would be empty. I needed rest, and space, and a long time to think. If we were going to catch Luke in his lies, the groundwork had to be carefully planned, and firmly laid, before we sprung the trap.

* * *

><p>The Phantom did not come back to my room that night, but he did send someone else in the morning.<p>

I woke up to the sound of someone talking loudly a few feet away, and pulled the covers over my head.

"It is _early_, " I said, through the covers. "_Go away._"

"Katelienne," said Madame Giry, patiently (but loudly), "take those blankets off your head and look at me."

I said something unintelligible, and faintly profane, and sat up, letting the covers fall down around me as they slid off my head. "What?"

"Cooper won't be giving you a written confession."

I wasn't sure I had actually heard her correctly. "_What?_"

"Cooper," she said, "is in a coma in the hospital. He drank himself into a stupor last night. The doctors believe him close to death."

I was out of bed and grabbing bits of clothes by the middle of her second sentence. "Can I go see him?"

"He's in a _coma_, Katelienne," she repeated. "As in _no_, you cannot talk to him because he won't hear a word you say. I suppose you could go visit him, but you won't get anything out of him. What are you thinking of doing?"

"The Phantom," I gasped, now wrestling a dress over my head, "does he know? Are you sure we won't be able to get a written confession? What if the Phantom already got one?"

Madame Giry's reply was lost in the rustling of my gown. I pulled it the rest of the way down, ran to the mirror, and started fixing my hair. "What was that?"

"He's the one who told me about Cooper's participation." Her grimly serious face was reflected ominously behind me in the mirror; I ignored her stare of disapproval and kept tugging my curls into the right position. "He was also the one who spied on Cooper all night and followed him to the hospital."

"Why didn't he stop him from getting drunk?" I wailed, jabbing pins into my hair. "What was he thinking?"

"As far as I can tell, he was thinking quite clearly, Mademoiselle," she said, now sounding put-out. "The Phantom knows what he was doing. Do you really think that if he walked into a bar no one would notice? There are other things at stake here besides Luke."

I finished doing my hair and spun to face her. "Not anymore. Not if you actually want to help me. Besides Luke, there should be nothing else. He killed my sister, Madame Giry. He has to pay."

"Let me get this straight," Madame Giry snapped. "You wanted the Phantom to waltz into a bar, demand that Cooper stop drinking, and march him out of there to go write a confession about his part in covering up a murder?"

I considered this for a moment, then nodded. "He could have worn a wig or something."

Madame Giry banged her cane on the floor impatiently. "You are being stupid. Sit down and be quiet and let me fix your hair."

I sat. Madame Giry was a force of nature. Furthermore, it was clear I could do nothing to salvage Cooper's confession. I would have to come up with a new plan, which I could do while sitting.

* * *

><p>After a minute of braiding, I ventured to ask a question. "Where is the Phantom?"<p>

"How should I know?"

I sat there and stared blankly into the mirror, wondering how to make her tell me something, anything about him.

"He's probably sulking," she said, after a minute. "He was rather abrupt with me this morning."

I couldn't resist asking my next question. "Did you put him in his place?"

"Of course. Turn your head a little, that's it." She stuck a pin in my hair, frowned, and stuck another in.

"What am I going to do?" I said, mostly to myself. "We don't have the journal, we don't have Cooper, we don't have a confession, and we don't have anything to tie to Luke. He's as good as free, now that Cooper's out of the picture."

"He may live," Madame Giry said, but she didn't sound convinced. "What about your voice imitation plan?"

"It's too implausible. I have no idea how we're going to work this out."

"What if I spoke to the police?"

"They'd probably believe you. But you'd have nothing to base your story on. Besides, the only person that would back your story up would be me – and I'm here under an assumed name. They would ask me questions I couldn't answer."

"So that's why you refused to help the Phantom in the first place," she said, tugging on my hair. "Sorry if that hurt. You couldn't go to the police because you weren't who you said you were."

"Exactly," I said. "And now I can't either. Madame Giry, I never wanted to drag anyone else into this…"

"Except the Phantom. You were planning to blackmail him, weren't you? I bet you were surprised when he turned the tables on you."

"How did you guess that?" I asked, surprised.

"Oh, that novel you were writing. I suppose you thought you'd threaten to publish it if he didn't help you. Of course, that idea is down the drain now."

"Yes, he actually wants me to publish. He said he wanted the fame."

"Oh, did he?" Madame Giry laughed to herself, and stuck a final pin in my hair. "Here, look in the mirror."

She gave me a hand mirror and turned me around, and I held up the mirror and examined the back of my hair. It was very pretty.

"Thank you," I said, and gave her a hug. "For listening. For everything."

"It's nothing, dear," she said, patting me on the shoulder. "And don't worry, something will come up. You'll catch that man. With our help, of course. Don't go about getting a swelled head."

"I won't," I promised, wondering where she had gotten that from. "Oh, yes, tonight's the rehearsal dinner, right?"

"Yes. You better be there; Luke asked about you, and I told him you already had a dress. He suggested that you wear blue."

I scowled. "Thank you, I suppose. And I do have a blue dress, but I'm only wearing it because it may throw him off my trail. Not because it matches his eyes, or some rubbish like that."

Madame Giry smiled at me, nodded, and let herself out. I sat down at my desk, and stared into the mirror again.

How I wished that Claire was here to help me.

* * *

><p>The rehearsal dinner was a traditional affair, and every cast member was always invited to attend, along with a few notable people of the Opera.<p>

Luke, as he was the manager, had invited those people he thought were notable, namely: me, Madame Giry, someone called Count Le Nansen (who I had never heard of before), and the current prima donna, Jeanette.

I knew absolutely nothing about the other "notable" people except for Madame Giry, and I was not expecting much. I intended to focus my attentions primarily on Luke, to watch him for signs of distrust or confusion, and I also intended to keep an ear open for the Phantom. I hoped he would show up: the Opera populace would be thrilled. And Luke would be rattled.

* * *

><p>When I entered the great dining room at six-thirty, the tables were glittering with glass and silver and gold, and the room was filled with hundreds of ball gowns, tuxedos, fabulous jewelry and waiters. Everyone was decked out in their finest. Every candle in the room was lit.<p>

I made my way through the crowd, keeping my eyes open for Madame Giry (she had told me she would be wearing dark green), and fiddling with the sapphire necklace I had chosen to wear. It was my mother's old jewelry: she had given a few pieces to me after Claire's death in an attempt to cheer me up.

I hated crowds: they always made me feel slightly claustrophobic, and I did not like the feel of people brushing up against me as they went past, especially older men (or younger, it just depended on how they looked at you). I finally caught sight of Madame Giry – she was wearing green after all – and was about to pass through a group of men to reach her when someone spoke in my ear.

"Go outside," said a voice, a very distinctive voice, and I turned around in surprise.

But there was no one that appeared to be speaking to me; everyone was preoccupied with their own conversations. I stared around in confusion.

Oh.

I picked up my skirts and made my way towards one of the side doors, hurrying past people and kicking someone in the ankle to get his large body out my way. People finally began moving (to the tables, I supposed), and I found my way to the door and went out.

It was much cooler in the halls than it had been in the stuffy dining room. I drew in a long breath of the silky air, and tugged at my necklace again. Where was he?

* * *

><p>"I'm right here," he said, as if answering my unspoken question, and I blinked and saw that he was leaning against a pillar, half hidden from view.<p>

"What are you doing out here?" I hissed.

The Phantom sighed, and came out from behind the pillar. He was wearing his usual dreary colors.

"Warning you, it seems. You're seated close to Garmin, are you not?"

"Yes, I think so," I said. "Yes, I am."

"He has changed the proposal date. He plans to ask you tonight, after the dinner. Do you want him to ask you?"

This was ludicrously obvious. "Of course not!"

"Then don't go back in. Besides, you need to work out the finer details of our plan. Madame Giry told me you were at a loss."

"Traitor," I said, under my breath.

"I overheard you talking, anyway," he said. "But if you still want to catch Garmin, let's go – I think I may have an idea."

I looked at him, thinking, about to make up my mind.

The door swung open behind me.

"Katelienne?"

I turned around.

"_There_ you are," Luke said, his blue eyes radiant against the black and white of his evening wear. "Come back inside; we're ready to start! And you _have_ to meet the Count; he's simply dazzling. What are you doing out here, anyway?"

I forced the words out, praying desperately that the Phantom had vanished. "Cooling off. It's a little warm in there, you know."

Luke took my hand. He didn't seem to have noticed anything unusual. "Why, yes, you're burning up! Come back in and have some water. The Count is very interested in meeting you! And you wouldn't want to miss tonight."

His smile was wolfish, cunning; his hand was like ice.

I followed him back inside.


	27. Chapter 27: Acanthus

_Thank you, everyone, for reading! And for your reviews! You are all so sweet! Also, thank you for the advice, angelofmusic75! You were not offensive, in case you were worried. :) _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>In the dining hall, people were just settling into their seats at the three long tables, chattering, glancing flirtatiously (or not) at their neighbors, and whispering secrets into various ears. Luke went to his chair at the head of the middle and largest table; I followed.<p>

At his right was the Count, a conclusion I reached by the pallor of the man's face, his ringed hands, and his stiff-backed, noble bearing. I doubted I would like him. In fact, I was determined _not_ to like him, after Luke's excessive praise of him.

At Luke's left was my seat – I drew it out and sat down, finding with some relief that Madame Giry was next to me. I was about to speak to her when the hall fell silent, only disturbed by the frantic scraping of chairs against stone as people hastened to take their seats.

Luke had risen to his feet, and it was for him that everyone had quieted.

"Mesdames and Messieurs," he began, resting one hand on the back of his chair, "we are gathered here tonight in anticipation of our opening performance tomorrow. Needless to say, I am very pleased with all of your hard work, dedication, and spirit."

There was a smattering of applause, which I joined. I had made up my mind to support Luke publicly (if not privately) in order to blend in.

The Count caught my eye from across the table. He was clapping quite enthusiastically. I wondered, sarcastically, if he had known Luke long.

"Now, now," Luke said, lifting his hand for quiet, "thank you. Thank you very much. Now, I have a small surprise before we begin dinner. I'd like to introduce you all to our new patron: Count Le Nansen."

* * *

><p>The Count rose to his feet, bowed, and bestowed upon us a beaming smile. "I am very much obliged to Manager Garmin for my presence here tonight. Thank you for allowing me to dine with you, within the halls of your great, renowned Opera House."<p>

He bowed again, and sat down, accompanied by a rising swell of applause. I knew everyone there was hoping he was rich, or famous, or both, especially the women, who seemed to be clapping the loudest. Luke had to raise his voice and tap his spoon (rather hard) against his wine glass before the clapping finally died away.

"Now," he cried, sweeping his arms out to encompass the entire hall, "let the dinner begin!"

He resumed his seat under the cover of still more applause, and leaned forward to speak into the Count's ear. I turned my attention to Madame Giry, who seemed eager to escape from the glassy-eyed, fixed stare that Jeanette was giving her. (It was well known around the Opera that Jeanette ate too little and fasted too much.)

* * *

><p>"Were all the dinners like this when you were here?" I asked, accepting a plate of fancily arranged pastries from a waiter.<p>

"Some," Madame Giry said, biting into one of her own pastries.

She chewed for a moment, swallowed, and lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug. "Not when the previous managers – Firmin and Andre – were here, however. They went all out. Acted as if they had never thrown a dinner party in their lives." Her face took on a dreamy expression. "Why, I seem to remember there were live monkeys and huge parrots flapping around the hall, along with jugglers and acrobats and fireworks. Meg was ecstatic for weeks afterwards."

I said something nice, attempting to pay attention, but my eyes kept sliding over to Luke. He was laughing about something. I bit into a pastry, winced as the hot insides burnt my tongue, and hastily reached for my wine glass.

But the tablecloth shifted just as my fingers brushed the stem, and the glass toppled over, sending red liquid in an ever-widening circle across the tablecloth. I looked down, realizing that the tablecloth had shifted towards me, as if someone had pulled it, and saw Madame Giry's hand clenched around the hem.

Luke mumbled something under his breath and threw several napkins on the spill before it could spread any further, helped by the Count, who found a few more and smiled forgivingly at me. (I smiled weakly back.) A passing waiter quickly cleared up the mess and found me a new set of silverware, along with another plate of pastries.

Madame Giry nudged me before I could reach for my wine glass the second time. My mouth was still burning.

"Don't drink the wine tonight," she murmured. "You may need a clear head later."

I sighed, acknowledging that she was right, asked another waiter for a glass of water, and refrained from eating the rest of the pastries. I didn't want to burn myself again.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry continued her monologue about the old days when Firmin and Andre were here ("and once they brought us all the finest breads from one of the nicest shops in Paris, along with three puppies, and two cats, and a new piano"), and I busied myself with nodding agreeably in response to her blatant lies and breaking my pastries into bits.<p>

The first course was some sort of soup (I was too busy nodding at Madame Giry and watching Luke out of the corner of my eye to really taste it); the second, fish; third, dessert; fourth, little plates of cheese.

The cheese plates were supposed to be paired with the wine we had been drinking, so I abstained from eating too much, seeing as it wasn't really worth it without the added taste of liquor.

I looked around the room, sipping from my water glass, and nibbled cautiously on a bit of cheese, pretending to be listening to Madame Giry. She was still talking about Firmin and Andre, and I had the feeling that she had drunk a little too much wine. Or perhaps she was only faking, but anyhow, she kept talking in a higher and higher voice, and I was getting tense and bored and much too hot in my sweltering dress.

I had the eerie feeling that I was being watched, and it was distracting me, along with snippets of loud laughter and coarse jokes, and of course, Luke.

He was in high spirits: the Count and he were talking jovially together, and poor Jeanette had somehow managed to integrate herself into their conversation. She _was_ pretty, which helped, and it appeared that the Count had taken a liking to her, despite her blank stares and unblinking eyes. His arm was resting on the back of her chair, and he kept looking from her to Luke when he spoke.

The rest of the hall was much the same (well, besides Jeanette's expressionless features); ladies clung to the arms of their gentlemen, jewelry and cuff links flashed in the blaze of candlelight. The hum of voices was nearly too much, and growing louder. This was probably due to the wine, which was flowing freely, like the merriment: everywhere I looked, people were laughing and sparkling and glowing with high spirits.

* * *

><p>It was during this final course that Luke rose to his feet again, tapping his glass for silence, holding it and his butter knife above his head to catch his audience's attention.<p>

I put down my fork. Around me, people were slowly realizing that the manager was on his feet; they began whispering to their neighbors to shush them, and putting down their silverware. Someone giggled loudly, and there was a chorus of shushing noises and stifled laughter.

"I know you are all having fun," Luke said, grinning around at everyone and lowering his dinnerware, "but at this time, I would like to make a little announcement."

I felt my insides clench together. He wasn't going to propose, was he? Right now? My hands tightened on the napkin in my lap; I couldn't tear my eyes away from the tablecloth. Madame Giry put a hand on my arm under the table in silent reassurance, but my face felt cold and stiff, and my mouth was suddenly dry.

"Count Le Nansen just spent some time in England," Luke continued, "and he thought he'd bring a little of the English traditions back here!"

He gestured to the back, and everyone turned to see what he had indicated. I was breathing a prayer of thankfulness under my breath, feeling lightheaded with relief. Luke had only been speaking about the Count, not about his proposal.

* * *

><p>The waiters were bringing out large objects on platters; six of them in all, draped with white sheets to hide them from view. The objects on the platters were about three feet high, and appeared to be heavy: there were four waiters per platter. The people around me began to whisper in curiosity.<p>

The waiters carried the platters through the hall, putting two on each table, one at each end. The final one was deposited directly in front of Luke, Count Le Nansen, and I.

I stared at the huge white object, wondering what was underneath the cloth. I had a sneaking idea that it was more dessert.

The waiters remained at the ends of the tables, hands behind their backs, and Luke smiled and cleared his throat and spread his arms out again.

"Cake!"

The waiters whipped off the cloths, and six, huge, glistening cakes sat glittering on the tables, each of them a different color. Royal blue, forest green, scarlet, dark purple, pure white and deep orange. People were gasping and laughing and pointing (their enthusiasm, I thought, cynically, was probably due to the alcohol). On top of the cakes were beautiful ice sculptures: a bear, a rearing horse, a swan, a serpent, an angel, and a knight.

The cake in front of me was the one with the knight. It was the blue one. I knew why. I scowled, remembered where I was, and hastily wiped the petulant expression off my face.

Luke clapped his hands together, and the last of the waiters filed out of the room, carrying the sheets with them. The doors shut behind them.

"Well, are you surprised?" he asked the crowd, smiling, and there was another outbreak of applause. It was obviously for the Count, as some of the ladies had risen to their feet to applaud.

"Yes, do thank our new patron; he did order them, after all. Now, before we dig in, I say we have a toast."

He lifted his wine glass (the waiters had come back around and filled them all with champagne) and held it high in the air. We waited in the silence, wondering what he was going to say. I held my breath. He parted his lips.

And the cakes exploded.

* * *

><p>I threw up my arms in shock, trying to protect my head, and Madame Giry grabbed me around the waist, pulling me to the floor as ice and icing and cake flew everywhere.<p>

It went on so long that it seemed to be raining from the ceiling.

When the hail of cake ended, my cheek was pressing into a cold, hard cobblestone, and I could feel Madame Giry's elbow digging painfully into my back.

I was marginally sure that my dress was ruined.

Well, I had never liked it much anyway.

I sat up, raking my fingers through my hair, and felt icing ooze between my fingers. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Madame Giry said, getting to her feet with a grunt and fumbling around for her cane, using it to support her weight.

She offered me a hand up. As I took it, our eyes met. "It was him," I whispered.

She nodded, broke eye contact with me, and began brushing bits of cake off herself.

I looked around the hall, realizing that people were screaming, and shouting, and wailing about their ruined clothes. The rehearsal dinner had dissolved into pure chaos.

Luke was standing off to one side, covered almost completely in blue cake, and through the mask of cobalt icing on his face I saw blank horror. Something fluttered from his hand to the stone floor, and he turned and walked through the nearest door.

Count Le Nansen was sitting on the ground in miserable confusion, patting Jeanette weakly as she blubbered about her dress. As I continued to look around, standing in the same place and brushing half-heartedly at my skirts, I realized that no one was injured.

But there had been ice sculptures on the cakes – how come ice shards hadn't flown into people's eyes or their hands and cut them? I stepped forward, and my foot crunched on something hard.

The knight's ice sword lay crushed on the ground, melting away even as I knelt to study it.

Madame Giry bent down next to me.

"What is it?"

"Is anyone injured?" I asked. "I mean, the ice should have cut us, we were so close to the cake – but I'm not hurt. Are you?"

The questions were really beside the point, but I was in a bit of shock. I couldn't believe the cakes had blown up like that.

Madame Giry shook her head. Her hair was coming loose from her bun, and there was cake on her face, but she had kept her self-possession.

"We should leave," she said. "If I were you, I wouldn't waste this time – it seems the Phantom planned this distraction to get you away from Luke."

I straightened up, and the drying cake matter on my cheek crackled. "Ugh. Actually, Luke just left. So it did work, in a roundabout sort of way. I may as well stay here and clean up."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, everyone was in bed (except for the waiters, who had their work cut out for them, and Luke, as I doubted he was in bed), and I was standing in the middle of the hall. There was a broom propped against the table next to me, which I had wielded until my hands began to blister. I was supposed to be waiting for Madame Giry to come back from the kitchens with a wet rag for my cakey face.<p>

But I had forgotten all about it. I was holding the thing that Luke had dropped.

It was a note.

And it was in Claire's handwriting.

_John,_

_Do you still love me?_

_Claire_


	28. Chapter 28: Hydrangea

_Yes this is the next chapter! Woooooo!_

* * *

><p>The Phantom folded his arms and raised his dark eyebrows at me. "You didn't actually think the note was from Claire, did you?"<p>

I was sitting in my desk chair, my legs crossed, and wearing a clean gown. I was also frowning.

Madame Giry was standing next to the balcony door, looking out at the clear night, wearing a clean dress. We had both taken a bath in our respective rooms and changed before coming here, as the Phantom had sent us both notes that he would be waiting near my room after we had "gotten all that cake off yourselves". Madame Giry had refused my offer of a chair, explaining (snidely, and in his full hearing) that she'd rather stand while around the Phantom.

"Something," she said, "might explode, and then where would we be?"

I understood her feelings completely, but my feet hurt from the too-tight shoes I had been wearing at the dinner, so I was sitting.

"I had never seen it before," I said stiffly, in response to the Phantom's query. "I assumed it was one of Luke's old love letters from her; something from the past."

"It was _not_," the Phantom said, for the third time, growing more irritated by the second. "_I_ wrote that note. I found the letter Claire had sent you, remember? So I used it to copy her handwriting. It was not that hard. And now Garmin is afraid, and that is how we want it, correct? So why all the fuss?"

Madame Giry cleared her throat. "If you had wanted Katelienne to be calm about it, Phantom, then you should have told her beforehand."

I knew she knew his name, because of how she stumbled over "Phantom" every time, and it irked me that she wouldn't say it.

"Enough with this _Phantom_ rubbish," I said. "You have a name, don't you? Why don't you use it? We know you're not a ghost, for heaven's sake."

The "Phantom" only looked at me.

Madame Giry said nothing.

I waited, but there was no response from her, and no expression from him.

There was absolutely nothing from either of them.

I threw my hands in the air. "Fine. Never mind. I won't bring it up again. Tell me about Luke instead. You said you had something new?"

The Phantom abruptly smiled, and his eyes went from gray-green to emerald. "You'll like it. But I think we should go outside. You two look rather... warm."

Madame Giry and I glanced at each other, then glanced away.

"Yes, the dining hall was hot," I said. "But thankfully, some dolt decided to blow up all the cakes and set us free."

"It was _so_ courageous for him to do so," Madame Giry added. "But, perhaps next time he'll destroy the disgusting pastries instead and spare us from having to eat them."

The Phantom's face was very innocent.

I gave him a look. "We know it was you."

"No, really?" he said. He had been waiting, it seemed, for me to say something negative. "I'm amazed you two managed to figure it out. What gave it away? The explosions? The screaming of the Opera populace? The sound of my eerie laughter from the ceiling?"

I narrowed my eyes at him, got up, unlocked my balcony door and went up the stairs.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry stayed behind to deliver an impromptu lecture. I could hear them arguing even when I reached the roof, and I was laughing as I turned to look at my garden. I thought it would be a good idea for us to sit in there and have our discussion.<p>

Unfortunately, someone else was also on the roof.

"Luke?" I said, very loudly, hoping the Phantom and Madame Giry would hear me in time and not follow me blindly up the stairs. "What are you doing up here?"

The sound of arguing from below abruptly cut off. It did not seem that Luke had heard it, as his expression did not change.

Luke was sitting on the base of one of the statues a few feet away, and he was staring directly at me. He did not look well. His face was pale, and his hands were clenched around the edge of the statue, and his eyes appeared to be bloodshot in the dim light from the stars. I thought I could see a thin line of sweat dripping down his forehead.

"This is my Opera," he said quietly. "And this is my roof."

I was rendered momentarily speechless by the bizarre nature of his words, so much so that I forgot about the two people below on the balcony. "That's… nice. Are you… all right?"

"I don't know why you suddenly care so much." His words were stilted and slightly slurred.

I felt for the banister on the staircase, intending to leave as soon as possible. "I'm sorry about the dinner. I didn't expect it to turn out… to turn out like that."

I had chosen the wrong topic, obviously, and I wanted to backtrack, but I didn't know what to say.

But Luke didn't seem to care. "Neither did I," he said, and his voice did the odd hiccuping slur again. He rose to his feet and walked to the edge of the roof.

I found the banister, took firm hold of it, and prepared to swing around down the stairs. "Well, I'd better be going. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Claire."

* * *

><p>It was as though someone had punched me in the stomach: I could not breathe.<p>

"What did you call me?"

Luke turned his blond head towards me, blue eyes seeking for my face as if he was blind. "Claire. You - are Claire, aren't you? Why did you take - so long to come back?"

The volume of his voice had risen with his words. I clutched the banister for dear life, stammered out, "I'm not Claire!", and ran down the stairs.

There was no sound of pursuit, only a ragged cough.

* * *

><p>The Phantom stopped me on the stairs, holding me back with one hand on my shoulder, and put a finger to his lips.<p>

I caught myself before speaking and waited, wondering what he was thinking. In the distance, from the roof, I heard the sound of gasping, strained breaths.

"He's ill," the Phantom said softly. We both turned to look up the staircase.

Luke was slumped over the railing, blond head drooping towards the street, hands twitching on the metal struts. As we watched, he slipped limply down behind the railing onto the rooftop. The gasping breaths grew fainter.

The Phantom went past me up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. I followed him, moving more slowly, afraid of what I might see.

He had knelt next to Luke's twitching body, and was feeling for his pulse when I reached them.

He raised his head to glance at me. "He's been poisoned."

_"What?"_ I gasped, kneeling next to him. "Can you do something? Can you help him?"

The Phantom didn't answer.

I was about to ask again when it hit me.

We could just let him die here, on the roof. No one would ever know we hadn't helped him. We wouldn't be held responsible for his death. We could sneak down the staircase and let him breathe his last, and Claire would be revenged.

The Phantom turned his head and looked at me, and I knew he would agree. I knew he would walk away if I asked him to, if I told him it was better this way.

"Fix him," I said, at last. "No one deserves to die like this. And... we have to bring him to justice."

The Phantom looked down at Luke, at the man gasping on the rooftop like a dying fish, the man who had ruined two lives and nearly a third.

He nodded, slowly. "I think I can help him. But we have to go back to my house. I need my things."

He bent down and hefted Luke to his feet, grimacing as the invalid coughed up something horrid-smelling on his shirt, and glared at him. "I am not doing this for you, you..."

I turned away, the better to ignore the rest of the Phantom's soft sentence (it was probably profane) and nearly ran into Madame Giry.

"He's been poisoned," I said.

She sniffed. "It does smell like that, doesn't it? What are you two planning to do?"

"We're going back to my house," the Phantom said from behind me, as Luke coughed wetly again. "We'll bring him back after we get the poison out of his system."

Madame Giry nodded, briskly. "I'll pack you a bag," she said. "Wait here."

I was about to follow her and explain that I could pack my own things, but Luke spat up more fluid and the Phantom said something nasty under his breath.

"Please stay here," he said, propping Luke up against the wall. "If he wakes up, he's not going to be happy to see me."

I obliged and found a space several feet away from Luke (he did smell awful), but directly in his line of vision. "What do you think he's been poisoned with? And did you see anyone put something in his food tonight?"

The Phantom eyed Luke's strained, exhausted face. "I would assume it was strychnine. I can treat it, but I need my tools. And no, I didn't. I was planting explosives during most of the night."

"Can we make it down to your house in time? Before - before he dies?"

"We?"

"I'm coming with you," I said. "You said I need to stay here in case he wakes up."

He sighed, and took Luke's pulse again, dropping the limp hand back to the stones. "Very well. But it depends on how fast you can walk."

"I'll run if I have to," I said. "I'm coming with you."

I heard footsteps: Madame Giry hurried up the stairs and thrust a bag into my hands. "Toiletries, clothes, other necessities," she said breathlessly. "Now get out of here."

* * *

><p>We reached the Phantom's house in about twenty or thirty minutes. Luke was beginning to convulse.<p>

The Phantom pushed the door open and hurried down the hall with his burden, taking care not to bang his patient's legs against the walls as he passed, and I dropped my bag at the entrance and ran after them.

Luke had been propped up against the bed in my old room, arms hanging limply by his sides as he panted for breath. His eyes were shut tightly, and his skin was a milky white.

The Phantom had disappeared.

I knelt down in front of Luke, unsure how to help, and stared at him, wondering if I was supposed to be wiping his forehead or something. Was this how one felt when someone was dying? Revulsion, and pity, and terror?

_Luke **murdered** Claire_, I thought. _Of course you'd feel different things when he is dying than if someone you loved was dying._

The Phantom came through the door, carrying a black bag and wearing a grim expression, and ordered me out of the room.

"I can handle it on my own," he said, turning his back on me and rummaging through his bag. "Go get some sleep. Take that blanket with you."

* * *

><p>I picked up the blanket and left, shutting the door behind me, and sat down in the hallway against the wall. I had no intention of sleeping while Luke was this close to death. I would stay up all night if I had to.<p>

There was a meow to my left. I looked over. It was Wednesday.

She stepped over to me and curled up against my side, purring. I stroked her back, monotonously. What if Luke died?

He had to pay. He couldn't die.

But what if he did?

I could hear soft noises from inside the room, vague sounds of retching and harsh breathing and little cries of pain.

I hoped the Phantom wouldn't give up and let him die.

Did I trust him to be in there alone with Luke?

The answer came slowly, rising almost imperceptibly into my mind. Yes, I trusted the Phantom. Yes, he would not lie to me about this._  
><em>

But what if Luke died?

* * *

><p>When the Phantom came back out of the room six hours later, his shirt spotted with bile, his dark hair ruffled with sweat, both Wednesday and I were asleep in the hallway.<p>

"Katelienne," he said.

I stirred slightly, and opened my eyes. Wednesday stretched and went over to the Phantom, purring as she wrapped sinuously around his legs.

"He'll live."

"He's going to be okay?"

"He's going to live. And I doubt he'll remember anything of this night. I gave him a sedative."

I sat up straight, wincing at the soreness in my back and legs. "Thank goodness. We have to return him to his room, though. Someone will eventually come to check on him. What time is it?"

"Three in the morning. And you don't have to come. I'll bring him back alone."

I got to my feet, and saw for the first time how tired the Phantom looked, how dark the circles were under his eyes, how lined his face was. "No, it's all right. I'll come. I can carry his feet."

The Phantom stretched like a cat, grimacing as several bones cracked audibly, and shook his head. "No. I'll do it. I'm sure you're more tired than I am."

I didn't want to make him go alone; I shook my head too and took a deep breath to wake myself up more fully. "I'm coming, I said. Bring him out: I'll take his legs."

It was clear that he wanted to argue with me, but he was either too tired to do so, or he had seen the fire of determination in my eyes. "All right. But I'm warning you, Garmin is heavier than he looks. He must eat rocks for every single meal."

* * *

><p>On the way back, we didn't talk much: both of us were too weary to think of sentences beyond "Take the next right turn" and "He's slipping again, watch out; catch his legs."<p>

Garmin was deposited ungracefully in his bed; I had begun to regret my part in saving his life, but it was too late to change it now. Besides, I told myself, he's better off living the rest of his life in jail. Just think of it as if we saved his life in order to make him suffer more.

The Phantom dropped me off at my room, and I was pleased to see that no one was there. I staggered over to my bed and sat down. Madame Giry had left me a note.

* * *

><p><em>Katelienne,<em>

_I know you have a lot of things on your plate right now. I'm sorry, but I can't be around tomorrow to help: I have to get ready for the performance, warm up my dancers, etc. However, I will keep an eye on Garmin for you. He'll probably be stumbling around the auditorium yelling at us anyway._

_I was wondering if you also shared a sneaking suspicion about Count Le Nansen. He was the one sitting closest to Garmin last night (well, besides you, but obviously you didn't poison him) so perhaps he dropped something in his drink. _

_Oh, and I know Garmin's alive because I heard you two galumphing past in the hallway and grumbling about your burden. Perhaps you should try and keep it down._

_I'm only joking, of course. Actually, I waited for you next to your room, but only the Phantom saw me: I think you were too tired to notice little old me in the dark._

_Sleep well,_

_Madame Giry_

_P.S. The masquerade is in two days - you need to buy a costume!  
><em>


	29. Chapter 29: Iris

_Here is the next chapter! Enjoy reading! And thank you for your fine reviews!_

* * *

><p>The next morning I leaned on the railing of my balcony, peering down at the bustling streets below and eating a piece of toast. Soon I was going to go to the auditorium to check on Luke's health, but for now I simply watched the people of Paris go about their daily, busy lives. I wondered if any of them had problems like mine.<p>

Madame Giry's note lay next to me on the railing, held down by my plate, its corners flapping gently in the wind, a constant reminder of the day that lay ahead. I knew I needed to buy a masquerade costume – or sew one – but I had no idea what I wanted to be. The theme this year was disguise: everyone had to dress as an animal, a mythical creature, a mythical person, or someone entirely unrelated to their position in life.

A few ideas came to mind as I crunched my toast: a maid, a giant butterfly, a cat – but none of these really suited me. I stuffed the last of the toast into my mouth and turned around to lean against the railing, staring up contemplatively at the rooftop.

A phoenix? A flower? A princess?

No, I finally decided, nothing too fancy. I'd go as someone quiet, someone who wouldn't be noticed. Someone nearly invisible. I didn't want to draw attention to myself, especially since Luke would be on the prowl (if he was recovered) and his assassin, whoever they were, would be moving through the crowds in search of their prey. Furthermore, it was clear that the Phantom's reaction to me showing up in a giant butterfly outfit would be nothing short of offensive mirth.

I made a mental note to ask Madame Giry what sort of costumes women usually wore to these things, and left the balcony to search through my desk. I wanted to see if the Phantom had returned Claire's last letter after copying her handwriting.

* * *

><p>I was sitting on the ground, rummaging through thousands of papers and growing increasingly irritated, when someone knocked on my door, paused for a moment, and opened it.<p>

"What are you doing on the floor?" asked Madame Giry, in astonishment. "Why aren't you out buying your costume with Luke? He's been looking for you."

I opened my mouth to tell her about Claire's letter, but she lifted a finger to her lips and I saw that Luke was standing behind her.

"Oh, hello," I said, clumsily. "Do come in, both of you. Actually -" I had realized that some of Claire's letters were in a stack nearby "- I'll come out. Just give me a moment to fix my… hair."

Madame Giry shut the door, and I raced around, snatching up papers and stuffing them as quietly as possible into my desk, locking the drawers one by one as I finished. I had completely forgotten that I had promised Luke I would go shopping with him for the masquerade when I had first arrived at the Opera. How stupid of me.

I paused to glance in the mirror – my hair looked normal, if not amazingly attractive – and opened the door. Madame Giry had been chatting with Luke; they both turned to smile at me as I came out.

* * *

><p>Luke appeared much improved from the night before. His face had resumed its normal coloring, and he offered me his arm jauntily, smiling at my surprised look.<p>

I took it, shrugging inwardly.

"The rehearsal dinner was a bust, wasn't it?" he said wryly as we went down the hallway together.

Madame Giry had made a hasty escape: she said she needed to go watch rehearsals, and darted away in the opposite direction.

"Oh, Luke," I said, "I'm sorry about the dinner. It was splendid until the part when everything went wrong. I suppose Count Le Nansen forgot to take out his explosives or something."

Luke snorted unattractively. "I guess so. He _is_ a nobleman, after all. But he's coming with us to go costume-shopping – I thought it might cheer him up. He was rather down last night."

"I would imagine so," I said. "You look a little pale today, Luke. Do you have a headache?"

"I feel marvelous, actually," he replied, turning his hand underneath mine so that our fingers met.

"Why do you ask?"

He didn't turn to look at me; I realized that he didn't remember anything of last night at all, or he was a better liar than I had thought. I relaxed, and pulled my hand gently away from his. I did not want to anger him unnecessarily, but I couldn't stand the feel of his fingers against mine.

"Oh, no reason. What costume do you plan to buy?"

* * *

><p>Luke was in a very pleasant mood indeed; he insisted on paying for both Count Le Nansen's and my costume, along with his own.<p>

We were going as the Four Seasons: I was Lady Autumn, in a brown dress with black trimming and a fiery mask, Luke was Lord Winter, in black and white evening wear and a black mask, and Count Le Nansen had agreed to be Lord Summer. He was wearing dark blue and a pale yellow mask.

Jeanette, as she had come up with the idea, had already chosen her Spring costume beforehand. From what I gleaned from Luke and the Count, she had planned to go with three girls, but she had changed her mind after meeting the Count. I asked what she was wearing, but Luke couldn't remember (or he hadn't cared enough to pay attention to her the night before), so Count Le Nansen helpfully supplied the answer.

* * *

><p>"Green and gold, with a silver mask," he said, waiting next to me as Luke paid. "She was veryyyy excited, Jeanette was. Tell me, do you know much about her?"<p>

"I'm only the writer-in-residence here. I haven't been here long, only a few weeks," I said, smiling at his obvious interest in the prima donna. "But from what I've heard, she's very nice. Did you ask her to come with you to the masquerade?"

"No, no," he said, and his pale face fell slightly. "I hardly know her yet. But I did mention I would be near the punch table; perhaps she will show up."

I noticed that his eyes brightened at this last idea; I smiled again and asked how he had liked England.

Count Le Nansen was just launching into a long-winded description of English manor houses and their gardens, when Luke came back, carrying our bags and glowering.

"What's wrong?" I asked, causing the Count to break off in the middle of a sentence.

"Oh, nothing," Luke said distractedly, still glowering, and handed me my bag. "Only some bad news. I'd best be going; I will see you two at the performance tonight."

"Wait!" Count Le Nansen said as Luke made to depart. "You haven't told me yet where I'm sitting."

"Box Four. Katelienne, you're in Box Five. Good afternoon, you two. I'm sorry I have to leave so quickly."

He went out of the shop, causing the bell over the door to tinkle in farewell, and Count Le Nansen turned to me with a sigh. "He's always running off, Luke is. I wonder what's happened now."

* * *

><p>I took this opportunity to pump the Count for information. "What do you think is wrong?"<p>

"I really don't know," the Count said, holding the door open for me. "He keeps worrying about money – I am afraid he is a gambler. Aside from that, however, he seems well. Except for last night, but that is to be expected, of course."

We had stepped out into the street, and the Count took hold of my arm, courteously steering me in the right direction. I allowed him to do so: I could find my way back to the Opera easily enough, but cultivating a friendship with the Count would serve me well in the long run.

"So he's not occupied, say, with women?" I asked, delicately.

The Count frowned at this, and shook his head fervently, sending me a bewildered, worried glance. "No, not at all! I had thought he was drawn to you!"

"Oh, yes," I murmured, and spoke louder. "Yes, I had thought so too. Luke is very nice, I must give him that, but I am not attracted to him. I'd rather be his friend, you see."

This was too much for the Count: he stopped dead next to a cart of flowers, and stared at me. "But he plans… He plans to propose to you, Mademoiselle."

I pretended shock. "What?"

"Oh, yes. Yes. I am afraid – I am afraid this is not good at all. Luke is very much devoted to you, Mademoiselle. (May I call you Katelienne?) He plans to ask you soon."

I nodded slowly. "Yes, you may. And I had really no idea of the extent of his affection… No idea at all… Did you think he looked ill today?"

I had changed topics abruptly in order to throw him off his guard and make him answer truthfully, but the Count seemed unperturbed.

"Ill? No, not that I saw… He does appear tired, however. I wouldn't doubt it was due to the dinner last night, though. I _am _sorry about the dinner last night. I did not expect the cakes to – the cakes to - "

He could not get the word out, so I supplied it for him: "Explode, you mean? I did not either. I am sorry about that. I'm sure you took it very badly."

"Very badly indeed. Very badly indeed." He looked around, spotted the flower cart, and plucked out a bouquet of white roses.

"Do you think Jeanette would like these?"

"Very much indeed," I replied, unconsciously mimicking his speech patterns, and then realized what I was doing. I stopped. "I think she would. You should present them to her after tonight's performance."

Count Le Nansen looked carefully through the rest of the white rose bouquets until he had found the perfect one, asking my advice on each of them. The flower seller waited patiently behind her cart, watching the Count's antics with interest.

He paid, and we set off down the street again; the Count clasping his bouquet to his chest and smiling affably at the passerby. I decided that it was impossible for Count Le Nansen to be Luke's inept assassin. He was much too kind.

* * *

><p>Of course, I could not be completely certain until after the Phantom finished going through the Count's room.<p>

We had arranged a new plan this morning: I would distract the Count in any manner possible to get him away from the Opera, and the Phantom would take advantage of the Count's absence to rifle through his belongings, searching for strychnine.

So I led the Count through the streets, pointing out shop after shop and asking if we could go in each one. I mostly chose the clothing shops, because one could spend hours in there, looking through racks of dresses and trying on coats.

Two hours passed; the Count (who had asked me to call him Francis) collapsed at a nearby café and asked me to join him for lunch. I accepted; we dined; and two more hours passed. I thought the Phantom would probably be done by now, so I suggested that we return to the Opera. Francis readily agreed.

"I had a lovely morning," I told him, as we headed back towards the Opera House. "You are a very fine shopping companion."

The Count, embarrassed at my overwrought compliments, flushed and bowed gracefully. "Thank you, Katelienne. I had a fine time also. Do you think – Jeanette will like her bouquet? I am rather worried about it."

I reminded him, "All you have to do is give it to her after the performance. Choose a time when she's not surrounded by admirers. I am sure she will be very pleased with your gift."

"Admirers?" the Count asked worriedly. "Do you think she has many?"

"Hmm," I said. "Perhaps not _very_ many, but she does have a few. However, I believe you have a good chance. She seemed to like you last night at the dinner."

"You think so?"

I affirmed this quite strongly, reiterating it a few more times for emphasis. We had reached the steps of the Opera House. The Count bowed again to ask my leave.

"I think I will take a walk," he said, staring dreamily at the afternoon crowds. "It is a very nice day."

I smiled at his lovesick expression, hoping that I would never look like that. "Don't forget to put those flowers in water, or they will droop. I'll see you tonight. Don't panic; everything will be fine."

The Count nodded, raised a hand in farewell, and wandered away.

* * *

><p>The Phantom slipped out of the wall as I went down my corridor, and startled me enough to make me gasp aloud.<p>

He laughed. "I was hoping you would do that. And the Count is not our assassin, unless he managed to either use up all of his poison last night or throw it in the Seine, neither of which he seems capable of. How was your day out?"

"It went well," I said, holding up my bag. "I bought – well, _Luke_ bought – my costume. I'm going as Lady Autumn. You?"

"How did you know I would be attending?" he asked, watching as I unlocked my door. "But yes, I am going, and I will be…"

"Well?" I said, after a moment of silent suspense. "What will you be?"

"You'll have to wait and see. Good afternoon, Katelienne."

I opened my door and went inside, glancing out to see if he was still there, but he had gone.

"Show-off," I muttered under my breath, shutting the door with a snap. "I bet my costume will be much better than _yours_."

Then I smiled: sitting on top of the tissue in my bag, folded, was Claire's last letter. The Phantom had slipped it in when I wasn't looking.

* * *

><p><em>I realize I've been updating very quickly - if you want to review, you can do it at any time whatsoever, even if it's like three weeks later (or even a year, for that matter). I know you guys are busy with work and school and other things, so thank you very much for spending your precious time reading my story! I'm very grateful!<em>


	30. Chapter 30: Begonia

_My goodness, this is the longest chapter I have ever written **ever**_. I hope you do not mind! Enjoy reading!__

_Oh, and to all the glorious, amazing people that reviewed this week: THANK YOU SO MUCH!_

* * *

><p>In the afternoon, the halls were buzzing with anticipation about the performance. I had left my room to find Madame Giry, and I kept running into little knots of people talking excitedly about the latest popular subjects.<p>

The first subject of interest was the Count: the ballet girls (and every other female in the Opera) were ecstatic about him, and some had even gone so far as to bet on whom would receive a bouquet from him tonight. Most did not think it would be Jeanette, as I had overheard a few snippy comments about how she had been "hanging all over him during the dinner last night! She's such a flirt! I'm sure he thinks she's disgusting."

The second subject was the Phantom.

"Do you think he will show up tonight?" I heard one of the stagehands ask another worriedly. "I hope he does; he hasn't done anything all week! It's bad luck, you know."

Two scene painters near them turned to join the conversation, expressing their notion that "he's just saving it all up for a big surprise. You just wait and see – he'll go all out."

I smiled to myself as I passed them. They had no idea what was going to happen. Of course, I didn't really know either (the Phantom seemed to like tweaking his plans at the last minute), but at least I knew what he had originally planned to do.

The third subject was me. I tried very hard to not listen for the sound of my name, but I kept hearing people whisper it as I hurried past.

"There she goes again… I wonder who she's interviewing now."

"Did you see how much attention Manager Luke paid her last night?"

"I hear he's going to propose to her tonight."

"Do you remember when she told him she wasn't going to stop writing about the Phantom?"

"Hey, there's that weird writer again. How many times did she ask you about the Phantom? Nineteen? I thought we would die from not laughing when you were telling her those lies."

It seemed that my name was frequently connected with Luke's. This was a bad sign. I hoped that Luke didn't intend to propose to me tonight; I was afraid I would throw the ring in his face or something, such was the mood I was in.

* * *

><p>I finally located Madame Giry backstage, talking with the ballet girls. She seemed rather occupied, so I hung back in the shadows and listened as she gave them a little speech about how proud she was of them. When she finished, a few of them hugged her, the rest smiled and curtsied, and then they all left to change into their costumes.<p>

"I think they really like you," I commented.

"Do you think so?" Madame Giry asked, turning around. "I had hoped they would. I know I'm a big change from their regular instructor."

She looked so hopeful, standing there and leaning gracefully on her cane, that I suddenly had a desire to hug her. I ignored this urge. She might think I was being flighty, or overly sentimental.

"I do think so," I said, firmly. "Do you mind talking about… er, other matters for a moment? I thought I'd clarify a few things with you before the performance."

Madame Giry glanced at the clock on the wall, and nodded. "I only have a few minutes. You'll have to make it quick."

"All right," I said, following her further backstage, where we'd be less likely to be disturbed.

"So… Number one. The Phantom promised he'd do something 'spectacular' tonight, so we should be prepared for pandemonium and chaos. Number two: the Count is not our assassin – the Phantom searched his room and found nothing. Number three. Since the Count is not our man, we need to-"

" – keep our eyes open for the real assassin," Madame Giry interrupted. "Is that all?"

"Yes," I said. "I'll see you tonight, then. I hope the ballerinas do well."

* * *

><p>Later that evening, I stood in front of my mirror in my evening gown. It was dark purple and very pretty, but I was having problems pinning my hair up securely. How come when Madame Giry fixed my hair the pins stayed in, but when I tried to do my hair, they fell out everywhere? I picked up a few more fallen hairpins and dropped them on my desk in despair. I would just have to leave my hair down.<p>

* * *

><p>When I entered my box at exactly eight-fifteen, clutching my fan and my opera glasses, I felt a thrill of excitement. I had never seen an opera performed before, unless you counted the acting troupe that came to Pau each year, which I did not. I didn't think they were comparable to the Palias Garnier's expert performers.<p>

I had a splendid view of both the stage and the audience from my box – I now understood why the Phantom had (supposedly) required Box Five to be left empty every show. If I hadn't know the Phantom was only a man with a mask and a sarcastic sense of humor, I probably would have been a little nervous about taking his seat. Instead, I sat there calmly and amused myself by watching the audience file in.

Count Le Nansen was leaning precariously over the edge of Box Four, clearly hoping to catch a glimpse of Jeanette. I doubted that he would, seeing as the curtains on the stage were shut, but perhaps he simply wanted to be the first to see her appear. I shifted my gaze to the other boxes: they were populated with ladies and gentlemen who looked suspiciously like noblewomen and men.

Sitting in the lowest box, closest to the stage, was Luke. He was tapping his fingers (I had taken out my opera glasses in order to see better) on the arm of his chair and chewing on his bottom lip. I hoped, darkly, that he was worried about tonight's performance.

The lights began to dim – the ushers were extinguishing the candles along the aisles. I settled back in my seat, folded my fan in my lap, and watched the curtains open.

* * *

><p>The first act was so interesting that I promptly forgot all about the Phantom. My eyes were glued to the stage. I was enthralled by the elaborate costumes, stunned by the beauty of the music, fascinated by the intricacy of the choreography. I did not want it to end; I wanted to stay in the glowing, golden dream of the opera forever. When the curtains fell for intermission I clapped harder than I ever had in my whole life.<p>

The audience members stretched, yawned, and babbled to each other about the magnificence of _Hannibal_. Some of them went down the aisles out of the auditorium, presumably heading to the lobby. I rose stiffly to my feet and staggered out of my box. My legs had fallen asleep after being crossed for so long.

* * *

><p>The lobby was decorated with at least a hundred red, orange, and gold candles, and the banisters were wrapped with white ribbons. I went carefully down the spiral staircase, ignoring the curious glances from below. I knew that if I looked down into the lobby, I would trip and fall. It would be quite a sight to see the crazy woman writer tumbling down the staircase with her skirts around her ears.<p>

Thankfully, I made it to the bottom unscathed and went to find some water. I was thirsty.

I was perched on the edge of a chair, sipping from my water glass and looking around with interest, when a lady approached, holding a wine glass and a fan, and sat down across from me.

"Hello," she said. Her grey eyes swept me up and down, taking in my dress, hair, and jewelry. Her eyebrows went up slightly. She was blond and delicate, with a Grecian profile, and her mass of light hair was piled up into a perfectly curled hairdo.

"Hello," I said, politely, wondering what she wanted. I was very aware of the loose curls streaming down my back.

"Are you a member of the Opera?" she asked, making the word "member" sound like "dirt."

"I suppose so," I said. "Are you one of the audience members?"

"I certainly hope so," she replied, snapping her ostrich fan open and shut and open again. "What job do you have here?"

The tone of her words (cold, stiff, irritating) was getting on my nerves. I stared mutely at her. Did she really think I was going to answer all her questions?

"You wouldn't happen to be that woman who's writing a book about a _ghost_, would you?" she asked.

"And what if I was?" I was determined to win this little battle.

"From what I've heard," she answered, sipping genteelly from her wine glass, "she looks rather a lot like you."

"So?" I said.

"So," she said, "I'm just curious as to why you're writing a book about made-up stories. Don't you think that seems a little ridiculous?"

I drank the last of my water and put the glass down. "And your point is? From what _I've_ heard, people write books about all sort of ludicrous things nowadays." She clearly knew who I was, so it was no use pretending anymore.

Her lips pursed. She threw another barb. "I've heard that you are going to marry the manager here. Fancy that, marrying a _manager_. Seems a little beneath your class."

I frowned. "And what do you think my class is, Mademoiselle?"

Her eyebrows drew together. She couldn't say I was of the upper class without complimenting me, but she had already negated the possibility of my being in the lower class, so she changed the subject instead.

"The opera is going well tonight, despite odd rumors that the _Phantom _will appear and ruin it. What's your opinion on the matter?"

I laughed. "I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

"Oh, I don't. But clearly _you_ do."

The audience members were heading back into the auditorium, so I took the chance to make an escape and rose. "You don't know me, Mademoiselle. You have no idea what I do and do not believe in. Good evening."

As I went up the stairs, I could feel her baleful gaze on my back, burning into my dress. I wondered why she had been so rude. Why were people always like that?

But it was of no consequence. If the Phantom did show up tonight, she'd get her due.

I hoped he wasn't going to do anything too horrible.

* * *

><p>The second act began much the same as the first: I continued to gaze raptly at the stage, but this time I was aware of the Phantom's absence in the previous act. I wondered if he was going to do something soon, and what it would be.<p>

Eventually, however, I sank back into my seat, oblivious to anything except for the performance.

Jeanette had done very well so far onstage: whenever her character entered, I glanced at Count Le Nansen and had to try not to laugh. It was just so _obvious_, his interest in her – he sat on the very edge of his seat, so far forward that he was in danger of falling off.

The lights onstage dimmed again to change scenes, and when they rose again, Jeanette was standing in the center of the stage in a spotless white gown. She looked like an ice princess, and apparently someone else shared this opinion, for snow began falling from the ceiling.

* * *

><p>I took Luke's shocked face as proof that this was not supposed to be happening.<p>

The snow wafted down onto the audience below, and they looked up in astonishment, away from the stage, and Jeanette stumbled over her beginning notes.

Count Le Nansen got to his feet – I doubted he realized he was standing – as if he was trying to help her, and I also rose – a few snowflakes had blown into my box, landing on the floor.

I bent down and picked them up: they were thin white squares of cloth, and they smelled strongly of cheese. Cheesecloth. What was the Phantom thinking? Cheesecloth? Who would be afraid of _cheesecloth_?

I sat back down, absently turning one of the scraps of cloth over in my hands, and saw that there was writing on the back.

_John Monett._

* * *

><p>Jeanette continued to sing, more confidently now; apparently she had taken refuge in pretending nothing was wrong. I glanced to my right and frowned: Luke had vanished completely.<p>

But no, I could see the top of his blond head; he was kneeling on the floor of his box. I picked up my opera glasses and focused them on him.

He appeared to be gathering up bits of cheesecloth and stuffing them into his pockets: I twirled the dial on my glasses, watching as the papers came into view. There was writing on his too.

_John Monett. John Monett. John Monett…_

His little attempt to clean up was not going to work: the whole auditorium appeared to be littered with his name. As I watched, he gave up and sat back down, leaving the rest on the floor. His brow was furrowed; his hands were clenched on the arms of his chair.

I focused my glasses on the audience's pieces: yes, the other papers had his name on them too. Someone was going to find this interesting, and someone, at least _one_ person, would probably try and find out who John Monett was. Luke was going to be sweating tonight as people bandied his old name about, speculating loudly as to why the snow had fallen and what the writing meant.

The snow stopped after it had filled the aisles and created a light blanket of speckled white over the audience members. Some had been flicking it off as it fell on their tuxedos, their gowns, and into their hair; others had laughed and turned their faces up to the ceiling. A few ladies were openly complaining; their husbands looked frazzled. They were probably wishing they had not come.

I noticed that none of the boxes had experienced the snowfall except for Luke's.

Count Le Nansen had resumed his seat after Jeanette found her voice again; he was staring intently, almost lovingly, at her, and absentmindedly crushing his program in both hands. I turned my attention back to the opera, but there were several thoughts whirling obnoxiously around in my head, making it difficult to concentrate.

* * *

><p>Jeanette finished her aria to loud, enthusiastic applause and thrown flowers. She bowed, accepting the audience's praise, and the lights dimmed again, allowing her time to get offstage.<p>

The next scene was a ballet, which the ballet girls performed magnificently. I spotted Madame Giry watching from the wings, and wished momentarily that I could go talk with her. I wanted to know if the Phantom had explained his actions to her, but then again, this would have been difficult, as she was surrounded by performers; so he probably hadn't.

I had picked up my opera glasses again, in order to watch one of the ballerinas execute a particularly tricky sequence, when every light in the whole auditorium went out.

* * *

><p>This technical difficulty was followed by several odd noises: screeching, clanging, and an noise that reminded me of the sound of toenails on wooden floors.<p>

I stayed where I was, too confused (and a little frightened, I must admit) to leave my seat, and hoped that everyone else would do the same. It would be absolutely horrible if someone was trampled in the rush of people exiting.

Someone lit a candle onstage. It was promptly blown out.

Luke's voice rang out through the auditorium. "Stay seated, if you please. We are working to fix the lights. Please do not move."

The remainder of what he was saying was drowned out by a very loud crash, followed by thousand of scratching, clicking noises. I wrapped my arms around myself and pulled my feet up onto my chair. I had a horrid feeling that something – or rather, several some_things_ – were entering the auditorium, and apparently everyone else suddenly came to the same conclusion, because I heard several people cry out in disgust.

Overhead, the chandelier lit itself, it seemed, and the whole auditorium filled with bright light.

Crammed into every single aisle, overflowing into the orchestra pit, nearly breaching the stage, was a mass of squirming, brown, furry, small bodies.

Rats.

* * *

><p>I got to my feet and leaned over the edge of my box in horror, finally realizing what the cheesecloth had been for.<p>

People were screaming and running around and pulling rats off one another; the orchestra seemed to have left the pit _en masse_, and the stage was suddenly empty of ballet girls. Luke made his way onstage; shouting at the crowd, pleading with them to sit down.

I stood where I was, watching the audience writhe and howl in misery and disgust, and shuddered. It appeared that the Phantom had outdone himself this time.

"_I would ask you all to leave, but it appears you are doing so already," _said a familiar, echoing voice.

The audience members gasped in unison, and Luke threw his head back to glare at the ceiling, thrusting his chest out. "Show yourself, you beast!"

"_I trust that everyone enjoyed the performance,"_ the voice continued, _"and I hope you will all return soon. Perhaps next time, you should bring a change of clothing and extra hairpins. Or maybe some cheese; the rats seem to like it."_

"Monster!" someone shouted.

"Lunatic!"

"Freak!" a woman cried.

I held my breath. _Please…, please…, please, ignore them. Don't respond to their taunts, you'll ruin everything._

But the Phantom was a step ahead of me.

"_May I ask that you leave now? Or something else may happen, and I promise you will regret it. I am sure you would not intentionally wish to anger me."_

Everyone was still wrestling with the rats and climbing on top of their chairs, so I didn't really see how they were going to file calmly out of the auditorium.

"_Oh, I see. You would like me to get rid of the rats. Don't worry; none of them have rabies. You are perfectly safe."_

There was a breath of silence.

_"Shoo, little rats. Go away."_

All the rodents stiffened, turned, and scurried out of the auditorium through the open doors, which the ushers had been trying to get them to go through for several minutes. The last of their wormy tails vanished over the thresholds, the pitter-patter of their tiny feet died away, and the Phantom spoke no more.


	31. Chapter 31: Canterbury Bells

_Thank you thank you thank you for your reviews! _

_Oh, and angelofmusic75, I looked up "alright" and "all right" to find out which one was correct, and the sites I found were rather contradictory, so I'm just going to stick with "all right." But thanks for pointing it out!_

_Enjoy reading!_

* * *

><p>I sat down on the edge of the railing, watching the fireworks explode over the Opera, in celebration of what Luke had hoped would be a perfect performance.<p>

It was unfortunate, then, that it had not been so.

After the rats had left, the audience had spontaneously given Luke a round of applause, in support of his attempt to put on an opera. He had made an impromptu speech in thanks.

I, on the other hand, had left, taking a different route than the one the rats had followed out of the auditorium.

Madame Giry, I supposed, would still be backstage, calming down the ballet girls and soothing Jeanette's singed feathers; Count Le Nansen would have gone back there too, to present Jeanette flowers and pay her compliments.

The audience would be leaving now, with the tatters of their clothing and pride trailing behind them. I leaned carefully over the edge, peering down into the street, but the doors did not seem to have opened yet.

I hoped that they would remember the name on the cheesecloth; that they would not be too miffed about the rats to have forgotten what happened before.

Another firework burst, and rained down red and blue fire, sparkling over the silent statues on the roof. I turned my eyes up to the purple sky.

_Poof._

That one was gold and blue; spiraling its way down to the dark horizon, fading as it fell.

_Poof._

"You'll miss the dessert if you stay up here," said a quiet voice.

I slipped off the railing, tugging my skirts into place. "I don't feel like going."

_Poof._

The Phantom walked over to the edge of the roof and rested his hands on the railing. His mask sparked with blue fire, catching the light from the cobalt firework that had just exploded overhead.

"I did not expect Garmin to make such a heartfelt speech," he said, curling his fingers around the metal bars.

_Poof._

"_I_ did not expect rats," I said. "Did you really think it was such a good idea?"

"It was perfect. The audience was horrified. I doubt anyone will return for the second performance."

_Poof._

I did not agree. "They might come in support of Luke."

"They'd be fools, then."

_Poof. _

"Phantom," I said, stung, "I'm sure some of them would be brave. You did not make yourself out to be a gentleman tonight, but Luke did."

"_Adversus solem ne loquitor."_

This was too much. "I don't know what you said, and I don't care. You may have made a whole lot of people angry, but you made them angry at the wrong person!"

"Hmm. Perhaps I should have had the rats come out of Garmin's box instead."

He was not taking me seriously. I took a deep breath and turned away to look out across the roof.

Another firework burst above us.

"You will see, Katelienne," the Phantom said, sounding more serious. "Tomorrow night, no one will show up. I have made sure of that."

I suddenly had a flash of insight.

I groaned.

"What did you do to the dessert?"

* * *

><p>Madame Giry joined us after a few more minutes, stumping across the roof with her cane pointed threateningly at the Phantom.<p>

"You idiot," she growled, "you nearly made one of my girls break her ankle. You did not have to have the lights go out at that exact moment!"

The Phantom had the decency to look contrite. "I did not mean to interrupt their scene, Madame. I was planning for it all to happen a little later, but a few things got out of hand."

Madame Giry did not seem convinced – she continued to glare at him – but she came to a halt and lowered the cane.

"Madame Giry," I said, feebly, "I hope you haven't eaten any of the dessert."

"What did he do to it?"

The Phantom said nothing, only grinned.

"He hasn't told me anything. He refuses to."

Madame Giry fixed the man with a stony stare.

The Phantom attempted not to smile, but he failed.

"It was only a _little_ bit of castor oil. I only poured a few gallons into the punch. Oh, and added some to the jelly rolls. But it's unlikely that anyone will eat those, they look awful. Of course, the cake may have some too…"

* * *

><p>While Madame Giry hurried downstairs to warn her ballet girls not to eat the desserts, I sat on the railing and lectured the Phantom.<p>

Or, rather, I _tried_ to lecture him, but he refused to listen and kept pointing out things like the fireworks and the stars and the "fine colors in your dress. Did you make that yourself?"

"Oh, _shut up_," I said in exasperation. "Yes, your plan worked, but think of all those poor suffering people! Do you have any idea what castor oil does to the digestive system?"

"_Yes,"_ the Phantom said, with relish. "Yes, yes, and _yes_. But you can tell me again if you want to."

"I have no words," I said, which was true, because I could not think of anything to say, and also because I was trying not to laugh. I slipped off the railing, turned my back on him, and pretended to look out at the city.

"Garmin is going to be the saddest man on earth tomorrow," the Phantom said from behind me.

He paused. "Are you cold?"

My shoulders were shaking because I was laughing silently, but he didn't need to know that. "Yes, I suppose I am."

He put his cloak around my shoulders, fastening the clasp at the base of my neck. "Here."

"Thank you," I said, not laughing anymore; he was too close. I could feel his breath brush lightly across my forehead. I took a breath. "I should probably tell you that you did well tonight."

"_I _should probably tell you that you are welcome. And that you looked extremely out of sorts at intermission; what happened?"

"Oh, some lady insulted me," I said, scratching at a rusty spot on the railing. "She basically called me an idiot."

The Phantom brushed something off my shoulder. "How rude of her. I hope you slapped her with her ostrich fan."

I glanced up at him. "What are you doing?"

"There was a moth on your shoulder."

"Don't kill it," I said, looking down at the cobblestones for the insect. "Where did it go?"

"Oh, it flew away. Look – the fireworks are ending."

We both looked up at the sky: the fireworks were exploding in huge circles, glittering like airborne, whirlwind fires. It was the finale, and the booming of the gunpowder was so loud that I put my hands up to my ears.

The Phantom tugged irritatingly on my arm. "The noise is the best part! You can't cover your ears!"

I glared at him, kept my hands where they were, and stared up again at the fireworks as they exploded over the Opera House. They were slowly dying down, but as we watched, there was one last burst of colors, reds and greens and blues. They coalesced into burning lines of fire, and I realized that they spelled out words.

_John Monett is Luke Garmin_

"Oh, my Lord," I said, my hands flying from my ears to my mouth. "What did you _do_?"

"This has been the most wonderful night," the Phantom said, dreamily. "There will never be another one like it."

* * *

><p>I handed him back his cloak and went to go sit down on the nearest statue and put my head in my hands.<p>

"What are we going to do…"

"Carry on," the Phantom suggested. "Trudge ahead. Keep going. Plug away. Et cetera. What, did you think I was really going to end with the rats and the castor oil? How pathetic that would have been."

"I wish Madame Giry was here," I said, through my fingers. "Then she would kill you for me."

"I doubt one old lady would be enough to overpower me. _Two_ old ladies, on the other hand, might be able to incapacitate me for a moment. Two old ladies and one young lady might stand a chance, but -"

"Have you been drinking?" I demanded, getting to my feet. "What is wrong with you?"

The Phantom raised his eyebrows. "For some reason, it appears that you are angry."

"You just revealed Luke's real name to the whole world! He could simply waltz out of the Opera right now and dance away! What if he never pays for his crime? I will kill you if that happens!"

"Okay, okay," the Phantom said, holding his hands up, "there's no need to get hasty. Garmin's not going anywhere. I'm sure he's hiding out in his office with the door shut tight."

"No," said a different voice, "he's not."

* * *

><p>It took me a moment to regain my lost breath.<p>

The Phantom took hold of my arm and pulled me behind him, away from the blond-haired man in the shadows, and bared his white teeth in a terrifying grin.

"John Monett," he said. "We meet at last."

From anyone else the words would have sounded stupid; but when the Phantom spoke them, they rang with the vibrations of cold danger. I shuddered involuntarily.

Luke's eyes were glittering. He did not look afraid.

"So _you're_ the Phantom," he said. "You're the one who's been leaving notes for me this whole time. But you -" he looked past the Phantom to me "- I don't know what _you're_ doing here."

"And she's not going to tell you," the Phantom said. "What do you want?"

I didn't know what he was trying to get Luke to do; I didn't know what I wanted to happen. I flattened my hands against the railing and tried to think as Luke responded.

"I only want some answers," Luke said. "The rest – the rest _you_ don't need to know. Only that soon I'll be gone from here, and no one will be the wiser."

"I will," I said, coming to stand next to the Phantom. My hands were shaking. How much had he inferred from our conversation? "You'll see. The police will find you, John. You'll pay your due."

"Such brave words from such a fine woman," Luke said, staring at me intently. "And what part did you play in this? Are you his -"

The last word was lost in a snarl from the Phantom, and Luke laughed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I offend you? Tell me, do you really think the police will believe either of you? Let me see: _you're_ a ghost, and _you _are only a writer. A very disconnected writer, I must say. I did some research on you, and absolutely nothing came up. No family, no friends, absolutely nothing."

The Phantom had regained control of himself; his voice was cool and light.

"I'm sure one could say the same about yourself, Monett. Actually, neither of us intend to go to the police."

"And so what do you plan to do?" Luke frowned for a moment, and then he smiled brightly. "I see. You have another accomplice. Who is it?"

I half expected him to start ticking people off on his fingers and asking us which one we had told. "You must be a fool if you think we're going to tell you."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Luke said airily. "In a few moments I will be gone, and no one can stop me then. You won't be able to get the information to your friend in time."

He reached into his pocket, and the Phantom lunged.

Luke was thrown backwards across the roof, striking his head sharply on the cobblestones. The Phantom straightened up next to him, clutching something in his hand.

"Strychnine," he said, holding up the vial, and kicking Luke in the chin to knock him out. "He was going to poison himself."

"We can't let him do that," I said, hurrying forward. "I'm sure he has more somewhere; you need to go to his room and find the rest. I'll -"

I was going to say, "discard this," but the Phantom held the vial away from me and shook his head. "No, I'll get rid of it later. I'm not letting you stay up here alone with him."

"Okay, what about this? We drag him back down to his room, search it, and lock him in, then go to his office and tear the place apart."

"Risky, but I suppose it will work." He looked down at me, his dark hair falling around his face. "We should tell Madame Giry."

We both shrugged at the same time. "She doesn't need to know yet," I said.

"We can handle it," he said.

"Let's go, then."

Luke was stirring, so the Phantom kicked him again, pocketed the vial, and heaved him to his feet.

"You can take his legs."

* * *

><p>As we stumbled down one of the Phantom's many passageways, I thought hard. Luke seemed to think that we knew everything about his past, even Claire's death. He had wanted to commit suicide rather than face jail. Something dark was driving him.<p>

Perhaps Claire's murder had eaten him up inside, casting everything he had once held dear into the shadows of misery. I wondered why we hadn't seen the signs before: mood swings, irreverence for his own safety, refusal to acknowledge anything except for what he wanted.

He had been the "assassin;" he had been the one to drop the strychnine into his own wine glass.

The Phantom glanced back at me over Luke's prone body. My eyes flickered up to his.

"Something wrong?" I gasped. Luke was heavy.

"No, nothing; only that I have no idea what we're going to do after we lock Garmin up. He _has_ to continue acting as manager."

"I'll handle the Opera people," I said. "I'll tell them Luke is ill."

"And what about tomorrow's performance?"

"Like you said, I doubt anyone is going to attend tomorrow night. At least, I hope not. We're just going to have to wing it – I can't think of a suitable plan right now."

The Phantom let Luke slide unceremoniously to the floor and turned to press his hand into the wall. It slid open, and we scurried into the hallway, dragging Luke behind us.

As we went down the hallway, I felt my stomach drop, and the Phantom came to an abrupt halt.

Luke's door was partly open; the candlelight from within made a gold line across the corridor's cobblestones. Someone was waiting for us inside.

* * *

><p><em>I suggest you look up the effects of castor oil on the digestive system: it is not pretty.<em>


	32. Chapter 32: Daffodil

_La la la... What are the Phantom and Katelienne going to do? It's so **nerve-wracking! **Hahahahaha...  
><em>

_Thank you for the reviews!  
><em>

* * *

><p>Together, the Phantom and I dragged Luke into a nearby room and shut the door silently behind us.<p>

I dropped Luke's legs with a quiet thud. "Who's in there this late?"

"I do not know," the Phantom said, dragging Luke around so that his body was propped against the wall.

He opened the door, slightly, and listened. "Whoever they are, they're very quiet."

Luke groaned, stirring again. "Wha's going on?"

I administered the kick this time.

* * *

><p>The Phantom held his finger to his lips, closing the door almost all the way. I stood still, listening hard.<p>

Footsteps were coming down the corridor, light footsteps, like those of a woman or a child. They passed our hiding place, continued on for a few more seconds, then stopped.

A door creaked open, a voice spoke, and we heard someone answer.

"Yes, I've been waiting in here for nearly an hour."

"Where do you think he got to? I thought he said he'd meet us back here." It was Jeanette's voice. The first speaker had been the Count.

"I don't know," the Count replied, faintly. "Look, Jeanette, he probably forgot. We should just go down to the dessert without him."

"Good idea. I don't think he would have been much fun anyway. He kept moaning about the rats."

The Phantom and I exchanged amused looks.

The Count and Jeanette went past our room and down the corridor, and we heard them begin to descend the stairs.

We picked up Luke again ("Why are we always carrying this man?" the Phantom complained) and went down the corridor into his room. The Phantom shut the door with his foot and dropped Luke on the floor for the third time.

I scooted hastily away so that Luke's head wouldn't land on my foot, and looked around the room.

My heart sank.

* * *

><p>"He's a slob. Look at that desk. We're going to be in here all night."<p>

It was piled high with molding papers, various plates encrusted with leftover food, at least twenty different pens, and what appeared to be half of a green cake.

The Phantom looked disgusted.

I stifled a laugh. "Well, we have our work cut out for us."

Luke made a horrible groaning noise, and the Phantom sighed. He was obviously trying not to strangle him.

"Don't you have any sedatives?" I asked, gingerly prodding at a stack of papers with a pen.

"I do," he said, "but I was trying to save them. However, I suppose I will use it, in order to preserve my sanity."

"And mine," I said, accidentally knocking the stack of papers over. "Look, we should divide the room in half. I'll do that side-" I hurried over to the side of the room without the desk "- and you can do that side."

The Phantom jabbed the needle into Luke's arm, recapped it, and straightened up. He had dragged Luke onto the couch on top of a stack of books, so Luke was lying at a rather awkward, painful-looking angle.

"Which side?" the Phantom inquired. "I wasn't really listening."

I indicated the portion of the room with the desk.

He scowled and raked his fingers through his hair. "Fine."

"Good," I said, turning to examine the bookcase. "This will be fun."

The Phantom's answer was a grunt. Apparently he did not like the side I had given him. He crossed the room and started pulling books off the shelves of my bookcase.

"I'm not doing the desk," I said, putting my hands on my hips. "You're supposed to be over there."

"Good luck with that plan," the Phantom replied, continuing to throw things on the floor.

It was clear that I was not going to be able to drag the Phantom over to the desk, seeing as he was much larger than I was, so I sighed and pulled out a few books of my own. Perhaps Luke had chopped out the pages of one of the novels and stuffed a vial of strychnine inside.

* * *

><p>Three hours later, I was sitting on the couch, watching the Phantom, who was standing over Luke (he was now lolling in his desk chair) with a detached, sickly sort of expression. We had pulled the room apart, littering the floor with papers and books and bits of crockery, but we had found nothing except for dust and bugs and junk.<p>

"_Wake_ _up_," the Phantom said, loudly. He had decided to wake Luke up and ask him where the poison was. I did not think this was going to work, but there was really no other option (besides listen to the Phantom complain), so I said nothing.

"You're going to wake the wrong people up," I said, yawning. "They're – going to come find out what's going on."

"No one's here," the Phantom insisted, waving a hand in front of Luke's face, and getting no response. "They're all out drinking."

I sighed and slumped back on the couch. Something smelled awful.

"_Wake up, you blathering idiot. Do something. Blink. Breathe. Speak." _

He snapped his fingers in front of Luke's nose, and Luke finally managed to open one bleary blue eye.

"Good," the Phantom said, sounding satisfied, and took something out of his pocket.

I sat up. "What is that?"

"It's only truth serum. It won't hurt him."

"Look," I said, getting to my feet (I was afraid the smell on the couch would transfer itself to me), "I know we have to find out if he has any more poison in here, but we can tie him up and leave him in a different room, can't we? Only until we figure out how to land him in jail?"

The Phantom uncapped the bottle. "I know. But I want to find out… I want to find out if that everything we think is true actually _is_."

"You're going to question him about Cooper? And about Claire?"

"Yes, I am."

I started backing towards the door. "I don't need to hear it. You can ask him without my help. I'll be in my room. Asleep."

"Katelienne…"

"No," I said, starting to feel frantic, "I don't want to hear it from him. I don't want to know what her last minutes were like. I don't want to know what he was thinking. I don't want to know any of it; we already know everything; you can listen by yourself."

The dark-haired man took a deep breath, and his green eyes found my face.

"All right, then. You can go. I will tell you what he said in the morning."

I found the doorknob and pulled the door open.

Then I froze.

There were people coming down the hall towards Luke's room, and they did not look happy.

* * *

><p>I quickly pulled the door shut. "Um, Phantom? We have a small problem."<p>

"Who's out there?" he asked, screwing the bottle shut and dropping it back into his pocket. "How many people?"

"They look like those thugs from the staircase," I said, "and there's about two of them. And I think there's a policeman with them; we have to get out of here!"

The Phantom left Luke lolling in the chair and went over to the bookcase.

"Good thing Garmin never found _this_."

And he pulled the bookcase away to reveal a dark opening in the wall.

"You really need to stop riddling the Opera House with hidden passageways," I said.

Luke made a sobbing, sickening noise; I flinched.

The Phantom groaned aloud. "I hate you, Manager Garmin," he told Luke, striding back across the room, and he was about to kick him in the chin again (I winced and looked away) when someone rapped on the door.

"Manager Garmin?"

It was the policeman's voice; I recognized it from the night I had broken into Luke's office.

He was obviously unsure about opening the door. He knocked again, hesitantly. "Manager Garmin? Are you in there? Please let me in."

The Phantom opened his mouth and Luke's voice came out. "I'm occupied, Monsieur Harris. Leave me alone."

He dragged Luke to his feet, nearly silently, (Luke's limp arm knocked a few more papers off the desk) and went into the passageway. I followed, shakily; I was afraid the policeman was going to open the door. I didn't have a key to Luke's room, so I hadn't been able to lock it.

The policeman sighed audibly from behind the door. "Manager Luke, we need you down in the banquet hall. There's a slight… disruption."

"Handle it yourself," the Phantom said grumpily, emerging from the passageway and waving at me to hurry up. "You're the policeman, not me."

I stepped past him into the passageway, and nearly tripped over Luke's prone body, but managed to catch myself on a sharp piece of protruding rock.

"Ow!"

Then I cursed myself. I had just given us away.

"Is someone in there with you?" the policeman inquired, sounding less afraid and more suspicious. "Are you alright, Manager?"

"Will you go away?" the Phantom asked, in tones of impotent fury. "I'm busy, I told you!"

The policeman said nothing for a moment. I held my breath.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," the policeman finally stammered out in embarrassment. "We'll be leaving now."

The Phantom did not answer this time. We heard footsteps fading away down the hall.

* * *

><p>"Did you really have to insinuate that?" I asked. I knew I had gone red in the face. "In about three minutes everyone will think Luke and I are… in love."<p>

"You put it so delicately," the Phantom said, heaving Luke over his shoulder and kicking the back of the bookcase to make it close. "And it was your fault I had to say that."

"Well," I said, trying to find a match in my pockets (how come there was never any lights in these places?), "if you had made sure your stupid passageways didn't have rocks sticking out of them, I wouldn't have made any noise."

The Phantom lit a match of his own, and dropped it into a sort of gutter in the wall. Flames whooshed up all along the passageway, and I could suddenly see my hand. It bore a shining red cut.

"Lovely," I said, waving it in front of his face. "Now I'm bleeding."

"You won't _die_," the Phantom said, going past me down the catwalk. "After we get to my house I'll give you some gauze."

"No," I said, following him, "_you're_ going to your house with that man. _I _am going to my room to get some sleep."

"Actually, we're both going to my house. We need to think of a plan."

I sighed. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I am _not_!" I said, and the words echoed down the passageway, rebounding eerily into the darkness.

The Phantom said nothing; only stopped and turned to look at me.

His eyes were soft.

"Look," I said, staring past him at the side of the wall, feeling naked in the intensity of his gaze, "I don't want to hear Luke's confession. I'm not… I just don't want to. I know he killed her, I know she's dead, and you can infer whatever you want from what I'm saying, but I don't want to hear what he has to say. He sickens me."

"Katelienne, we need to know the truth."

"Then you can listen to him," I said. "I'll be in my room. You can tell me what you found out when you're done."

He nodded, slowly, as though he had heard something else entirely. "Are you afraid we have the wrong man?"

"No!" I said. "No, no, not at all. Why, are you?"

The Phantom shifted Luke off his shoulder and set him down (not gently) on the catwalk. "No. But I want to know exactly what happened. Cooper could have lied; isn't that possible?"

"Well, yes. But why would he? Do you think he murdered Claire?"

"No. Well, perhaps you are right about not wanting to pry. Let me change subjects. What are we going to do about this new situation?"

I threw my hands into the air in despair. "_You_ come up with a plan. I have no idea."

"Luckily," the Phantom said, his eyes glinting roguishly, "I have something in mind. But you aren't going to like it."

This did not come as a great surprise, for some reason.

I sighed and sat down to listen. "What is it?"

* * *

><p>It took a while, but eventually I agreed with the Phantom's idea that I should stay in Luke's room for the remainder of the night (and the rest of the next day). The Opera populace would come to the conclusion that Luke and I were occupied with each other, and nod and leer and grin at each other whenever my name or Luke's was mentioned.<p>

Luke was not going to show up to the performance; neither was I, and the Phantom had agreed (albeit very grudgingly) to leave for an hour or so, in order to wreck the audience's enjoyment of the opera.

"That is," he had said, "if anyone shows up, which I heartily doubt."

I was to stay in Luke's room with my knife, and an assortment of other weapons which the Phantom would provide, and with Luke tied and gagged and sedated. It did not seem like a difficult assignment; the only thing I had qualms about was the fact that my spotless reputation was going to be dragged liberally through the mud.

The Phantom, surprisingly, had seemed to understand this, but we both agreed it was necessary if we wanted to lock Luke up for good.

"And what then?" I asked. "What about the next day? And the masquerade?"

"We'll figure something out," the Phantom said, leading the way back to Luke's room. We had stopped by my room to allow me to pack a change of clothing and find my knife. "Don't worry about it yet."

He pushed the bookcase open, crossed the room to lock Luke's door (he had found a key that would work), and dropped Luke on the floor.

"You can have the bed," he said. "It smells better than the couch."

I pulled sheets and blankets out of my bag and spread them over the grimy ones on the bed. It was not going to be the pleasantest place to sleep, but it would do. "If you insist. Here, you can have this blanket."

I lay down on the bed, wincing at the smell (it was still pretty strong), and closed my eyes. The springs in the couch creaked as the Phantom made up his bed.

"Did you give Luke more sedative?"

"He'll be out till the morning," the Phantom said, sounding sleepy. The springs creaked again, louder this time. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I said, and then remembered something. "If I sleep till nine, please wake me up. I don't want to miss anything."

"Fine," he said, and yawned. "But you probably won't. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I said, wrapped the blanket around myself, and fell asleep.


	33. Chapter 33: Snowdrop

"_Katelienne, what are you doing here?"_

_Claire looked up at me from her place on the floor, her dark hair spread over the wooden boards, her eyes nearly black in the dim light._

_I drew closer, holding my knife._

"_Where is he?"_

_She did not move; she lay on her back and smiled at the ceiling. "You're too late."_

"_He killed you, Claire," I said, and the words did not sound absurd, only final and ominous. "Please tell me where he is."_

_There was a crack of sound, like that of lightning, or of a whip, and Claire flew up onto her feet, glaring at me. _

_I saw the terrible ring of blue-black bruises around her neck, and as if in acknowledgment, a wind sprang up around us, growing louder, tugging at the sleeves of our dresses._

_The room suddenly began to rip apart in the wind, the walls crumbling into wooden splinters, and I reached despairingly for Claire's hand, dropping the knife on the floor. It was not worth it, not without her._

"_Please, Claire, you have to come with me," I pleaded. "We can't stay here."_

"_I __**love**__ him!" she cried, and stepped away from me, her hair whipping in the wind, writhing around her face. "I won't leave!"_

"_Claire!" I begged, stepping closer, trying to grab her hand. "Please!"_

_There was another ripping noise, and I looked past her to see that the wall had vanished, leaving only darkness behind._

"_Claire! No!"_

_But she turned, and the wind caught her up and threw her away from me, drawing her into the darkness. She rippled, and was gone._

"_CLAIRE!"_

* * *

><p>I sat up with a gasp; someone had touched my shoulder and awakened me.<p>

The Phantom was crouched next to the bed, his black hair falling over the top edge of his mask, his eyes dark and worried. He had lit a candle, and the glow was too bright for my sleep-strained eyes.

"Are you all right?"

"Nightmare," I croaked, wincing at the light. "What are you doing up?"

"I heard something. It turned out to be you." He blew out the candle. "Sorry."

I said nothing, only drew a hand across my face and closed my eyes.

"Do you want some water?"

I didn't see how water would help, but I nodded anyway.

The Phantom dropped the candle on the side table and vanished into the darkness.

I sat up in bed, pulling the scratchy sheets off my legs, and rested my face in my hands. My head was throbbing.

* * *

><p>When the Phantom came back I had regained some semblance of normality, and pulled my sweaty hair into a braid.<p>

"Did you really manage to find a clean cup?"

"Two, surprisingly," the Phantom replied, handing me one. "I can't believe anyone can stand living like this."

I drank some water, swishing it around in my mouth before swallowing. My throat was dry. "I don't think he lives here, really. I think he usually ends up drunk in bars at night."

"The more fool him, then," the Phantom said, and sat down next to me on the bed. I could feel his eyes on the top of my head.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"It was only a nightmare," I answered. I drank some more water. "You needn't worry about me."

The Phantom sat quietly for a moment. "I'm not worried. Only… curious. Was it about Claire?"

I turned my glass around in my hands, the smooth, cool texture gliding between my palms. "Did I say something?"

"Only her name."

"I keep dreaming about her," I said, staring at the nearly invisible glass. "Sometimes I'm afraid I'll never stop."

"You never dream anything – happy about her?"

I shook my head.

"I'm sorry."

I took a deep breath as tears began to gather in the corners of my eyes. I was so tired. "I wish… Sometimes I wish I had died instead of her."

His answer was quick and low. "I'm glad you didn't."

"I know," I said, hoarsely, and swallowed hard. "But I loved her – so much."

The Phantom's hand found mine in the darkness. "She would have wanted you to live, Katelienne."

* * *

><p>We sat there for a moment, until Luke's rasping snores intruded into the peaceful silence.<p>

I stiffened, and got to my feet. The Phantom's hand slid away from mine.

"If he hadn't married her-"

"I know, Katelienne."

"If he hadn't been drinking-" I stepped forward, towards Garmin, my fingers curling into fists.

The Phantom stepped after me, and then stopped.

"I wish I had been there! I wish I had killed him! I want to kill him – I would kill him now if I could!"

I was crying now, the tears dripping down my face, but my lips were distorted in a grimace of hate. I wanted my knife.

The Phantom reached out, and touched my hair, the light pressure of his fingers recalling me to myself. "I won't let you, you know."

"I wish he had died instead," I sobbed, and turned away from the prone body on the floor. "I wish he was _dead_."

The Phantom's arms came around me, and I wept.

* * *

><p>An hour later, I had fallen into a fitful sleep, and the Phantom was perched on the couch, staring pensively into the fire, his chin propped on his fists.<p>

Something rattled the doorknob: I started. The Phantom rose lithely to his feet.

"It's me," whispered a familiar voice. "It's me, Madame Giry. Let me in."

The Phantom and I looked at each other. "Did you tell her?" I whispered.

He shook his head, and went to go open the door.

Madame Giry crept inside, blinking confusedly in the near-dark. She was breathing hard.

"I've just escaped from the dessert," she told us quietly, frowning at Luke's body on the floor. "And someone told me that you had… er… kissed Luke."

"Oh, dear," I said, sinking back down into the sheets. "No, I haven't."

"Well, of course not!" she said, turning to scowl at the Phantom, who was locking the door. "I knew that something was up – that _he_ had probably said something moronic about you – so I came up here as soon as I could."

She looked expectantly at me.

I sighed. "He can explain," I said, indicating the Phantom. I wasn't sure if my face was still streaked with tears, and I didn't want to give Madame Giry a chance to examine me more closely.

The Phantom located a mostly clean chair for Madame Giry and pulled it up next to the couch.

"This is going to take a while," he said, sitting down. His eyes found me. "You may as well go back to sleep."

Madame Giry glanced over the back of the chair at me, and smiled. "Goodnight, dear," she said. "Sleep well."

I smiled back at her and rolled over, pulling the blankets over my head. The soft rumble of the Phantom's explanation became an unintelligible, gentle stream of sound, and I slept.

* * *

><p>When I woke, it was morning, and Madame Giry had gone.<p>

I sat up and winced at the stream of sunlight pouring into Luke's room from the window.

"Who opened the curtains?"

The Phantom raised a hand in admission. He was crouching on the paper-strewn floor with his back to me, staring down at Luke, and holding the open bottle of truth serum in his other hand.

I got out of bed and picked up my bag and went into the bathroom. I did not plan to wear my evening gown for another whole day.

When I returned, dressed in a new gown and with my hair pinned up, I dropped my bag on the bed and sat down on the couch a few feet away from the Phantom.

Luke's voice was low, but I could still hear it.

"…then I went to the bar to find him, but he wasn't there yet, so I waited for a while."

"Skip that part," the Phantom said, impatiently. "What happened after you met him?"

Luke was propped against the wall, his blue eyes unfocused, his lips trembling as he spoke. He saw me behind the Phantom and burst abruptly into weak laughter.

"What's she doing here?" he spluttered. "Thought she had left."

"Answer the question," the Phantom said, over the sound of Luke's inane giggling. "Tell me what happened after you met Cooper."

"Oh, I threatened him, the usual, you know," Luke said, his eyes drifting away from me; his shoulders stopped shaking with mirth. "He took off like there was an army after him."

Luke's words were peppered with foul language and cursing, which I pretended not to hear.

"And when you found him in your apartment?"

Luke smiled, his lips drawing back until they had lost their color. "Claire was such a dear. Cooper told her we were friends, so I went along with it. I knew he wouldn't do anything after realizing I had such a lovely wife."

"Skip the part about Cooper," I said, breaking into the conversation. "Tell me about Claire."

"Oh, _Claire_," Luke said, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

The Phantom glanced at me, frowning, and turned the bottle over in his hands. "I might have given him too much."

I frowned back. "How much did you give him? Don't you know the correct dosage?"

Luke blinked and looked around in mild confusion. "Are you still here?"

"Tell us about Claire," the Phantom repeated, turning back to his prisoner.

Luke's voice settled, gradually, into an odd monotone, and I had to lean forward to catch the slurred, nearly inaudible words. "Claire was my wife. I loved her. She was very pretty."

"And did you hurt her?"

"Yes, and no." He giggled again.

I dug my nails into my palm. "Tell us what you did, Luke."

"John," Luke said, finding me again with his blurry eyes. "My name's John. Or it was, anyway. Before that… it was… it was… No, I can't remember. Why is everything so fuzzy in here?"

The Phantom growled, interrupting him, "Tell us about Claire."

"I… can't," Luke gurgled. "She was so pretty. Her hair was like water. But it wasn't, not really. No, it wasn't. No. She found me in the apartment with the maid."

He paused, and then the words spilled out like a torrent.

"She told me she was leaving. I told her she wasn't. She yelled." He took a breath, chewed on his lip, began again. "I don't like being yelled at. I put my hands around her neck. Her pretty, white neck."

"And then?" the Phantom asked, his voice lowered to a whisper. "Did you do anything else?"

Luke's eyes flickered, dimmed, sparked again into a sickly blue. "I _squeezed_."

* * *

><p>I sprang up to grab the Phantom's arm before he could finish his murderous descent towards Luke, who was sprawling against the wall in a sort of laughing fit.<p>

I could feel the muscles of the his bicep tensing under my hand as the Phantom fought to control himself, but he finally took a step back (with my helpful tug) and turned away from the blond-haired man, the man with the eyes of a devil.

"You can't hurt him," I said, still clutching his arm. "Well, at least you can't _kill_ him. Why don't you sit down?"

I wasn't as calm as I sounded; I could hear Luke's last phrase echoing nauseatingly in my head, and I was shaking with rage; but at least I had managed to stop myself from attacking him.

The Phantom's face underwent a series of pained, agonizing expressions. His dark brows drew down, his lips pressed whitely together, and he detached my hand from his arm and went to the window.

I turned back to Luke. "Shut up, you vile, horrible creature."

"Here." The Phantom turned, tossing me a syringe. "Sedative."

I sunk the needle into the soft flesh in Luke's shoulder, rather harder than I had needed to, and sat back on my heels to watch its effect.

"He's asleep," I pronounced.

It took a moment for the Phantom to respond; he was still staring out of the window as though he had found an opening in the sky.

I straightened up and capped the syringe, dropping it into my pocket.

"Thank God," the Phantom said, finally turning away from the window, and flexing his hands as if eager to crush something with them. "Let's drag him into the passageway, shall we? It'll cheer the room up to have him out of it."

I obliged, and helped the Phantom slide Luke through all the papers and muck and dust on the floor, through the bookcase door, and into the smelly, dank passageway.

We leaned him up against the wall (he looked rather like a corpse) and shut the bookcase. I dusted my hands off, and happened to glance up at the clock.

"It's lunchtime already? You let me sleep through the whole morning?"

The Phantom collapsed onto the couch - the springs groaned, but held - and leaned his head back against the smelly cushions. "Yes."

I sat down on the bed, wrinkling the blankets. "I've missed breakfast. I could have gone to the kitchen and got some if you had woken me up on time."

"I would apologize, but I'd rather take a nap."

"Sometimes I wish you were a little more agreeable," I said, getting to my feet. "I'm going down to the kitchen. What do you want for lunch?"

"I don't care."

"Alright, then, I'll bring back something edible or something. See you in a bit."

The Phantom had closed his eyes, but he opened them a tiny fraction, revealing a thin line of green, as I reached for the doorknob.

"I wouldn't go out there if I was you."

"I know, I know," I said, "people are going to be gossiping about me. Well, I can handle it. I'm sturdier than you think."

And with that, I found the key, opened the door, and stepped out into the corridor with my head held high. It took only a few seconds before I wished I had not left.

Even staying in Luke's horrible room would be better than walking the corridors followed by staring, whispering, nasty, gossiping people, but I had to get lunch or starve. I told myself it was worth it as I headed towards the stairs, but I was afraid I wasn't very convincing, because I could already feel my ears burning as the whispers began behind me.


	34. Chapter 34: Heliotrope

_Hello, my faithful readers! I hope you are enjoying this story!_

_Once again, thank you for your kind reviews!_

* * *

><p>It was evening, and the performance had begun.<p>

I was sitting on the couch, reading through one of Luke's legal tomes and scratching my head over the archaic wording. I had sent the Phantom off to annoy the audience, and I was thankful to have a moment to myself.

It had been a trying day, what with Luke's confession (and later, the Phantom's moodiness), and I had been stretched nearly to my breaking point when one of Luke's friends knocked on the door in the late afternoon.

"Hey, Luke," he had roared, "where's that lady love of yours? People are talking about you two! You better come out and give me the scoop!"

I steadfastly refused to look at the Phantom, who was fuming.

"I'm not going to say anything," he growled under his breath. "Eventually he'll give up and go away."

"But if he's got a key-" I had brought this up numerous times that afternoon, and the Phantom was sick of my argument.

"Then I'll knock him out and stick him in the passageway with Luke," he grumbled, pacing the room noiselessly. "I'm not going to talk to him."

"Fine," I said, and folded my arms. "Then we'll just wait for him to alert the whole Opera that 'Luke and that lady' have been in here all day."

"Fine."

We both pretended that the other was not in the room.

Eventually, however, Luke's friend departed, calling out a few last jibes, and wolf-whistling raucously as he left the corridor, and I unbent slightly.

"I suppose you didn't have to talk to him. But you could at least have made some noise."

"Mrmblemrmrble," said the Phantom, unintelligibly. He was facing the window again.

I gave up on him and went to find a book.

* * *

><p>After I read for a while, the Phantom decided he was bored. He wandered over to the couch and sat down and flicked at the pages of my book.<p>

I scooted further away. "Stop that. Go find your own book to read."

"Aren't you supposed to be doing something?" he asked. He had found one of Luke's discarded pieces of parchment, and he began tearing up it and dropping the bits on the floor.

"No," I said, "and go away."

"Aren't you supposed to writing my book?"

I looked up from my book, annoyed that he had managed to draw my attention away from it again. "No, because right now I am occupied, and my papers and notebooks are in my room. And it's not your book, it's mine, seeing as I'm writing it, not you."

"It's about me," the Phantom pointed out, dropping the rest of the paper scraps on the floor in a heap. "Therefore it is mine."

"Your logic is flawed," I said, turning a page. "But we did make an agreement, so I will honor it, but only when I am back in my room and that beast in the passageway is in jail."

"I think we should redo our arrangement."

I closed my book, which I had been trying to read again, and looked at him, exasperated. "What?"

"Only joking," the Phantom said, blinking at me innocently. "Go back to your book."

"I can't read it while you're bothering me," I snapped. I tossed the book on the floor, and got up to tend the fire.

* * *

><p>While I jabbed at the flames with the poker, the Phantom spread out on the couch and put his arms behind his head and began to whistle.<p>

The whistling was in tune, at least, but the noise was bothering me, and I didn't want him to be enjoying himself while I was not, so I turned and glared at him.

He winked at me.

I turned back around and threw some paper scraps into the fire. "Please refrain from whistling."

"Am I distracting you from your bad temper?"

"No," I said, throwing more paper scraps into the fire (some sparks leapt up at my face, and I hurriedly moved back), "you are _creating_ my 'bad temper', as you call it."

There was a pause, during which the fire crackled as it absorbed its new fuel, and I sulked.

"Look," the Phantom said, sounding less jovial, "is something bothering you?"

I sat back on my heels and considered the bright, leaping flames. "We have the manager of the Opera locked up in a hidden passageway behind his bedroom."

"He's a confessed _murderer_, Katelienne."

I turned to look at him. "And now everyone in the whole Opera House is under the impression that he and I are in love."

"So you're unhappy about that."

"I thought you were intelligent, at least, up until now," I said, sitting Indian-style and trying to find something else to throw into the fire. I reached over and picked up the Phantom's pile of paper, who seemed to be imitating a statue.

"Is there something wrong with _you_?" I snapped, wondering if I had hurt his feelings. "You were supposed to be saying something mean half a second ago."

"I was waiting," the Phantom said, relaxing his face muscles, "for the perfect moment, which we have now entered."

He took a deep breath.

I threw a fistful of paper shreds at him.

Some of them landed in his mouth, which was good, because I had aimed there, but the rest slipped off his face and rained down on the couch.

He coughed.

"Ew," I said, hurriedly getting out of the line of fire. "Don't spit paper at me."

The Phantom left for the bathroom.

* * *

><p>When he returned, he was holding a rather oddly colored glass of water. It was brown.<p>

"What's that?" I asked, glancing around for an exit.

"Hair dye," the Phantom said. "You do want to go to the masquerade, don't you?"

"Well," I said, edging for the door, "yes, but I don't have to dye my hair to go. What are you doing?"

The last word ended in a shriek – he had stepped around the couch and headed straight for me.

I dived past him into the bathroom and locked the door, very thankful there was a window inside. If I needed to, I could escape through it.

"Katelienne," the Phantom said, knocking loudly, "if you're going to the masquerade, everyone's going to notice your red hair. They'll follow you around all night and ask about Garmin. Because you're in love, remember? You'll never be able to enjoy yourself."

He did not sound as though he actually cared; he sounded like he was attempting not to laugh.

"I'm not dying my hair. I'll wear a costume with a head covering. Yes, that's what I'll do. You can put that dye somewhere else."

"I don't think Garmin would look more attractive with brown hair, if that's what you're thinking."

"Shoo," I said, leaning against the door. "Go away. Actually, give me the dye. I'll pour it down the sink. Where did you get it, anyways?"

"I always carry hair dye with me," the Phantom said, sounding amused. "It's _so_ useful."

I thought about this for a moment. Did he really dye his hair?

"I'm _joking_," came the quick answer from behind the door. "I don't dye my hair! I can't believe you actually considered that!"

"Well," I said, "your hair is rather nice-looking. It's possible you use cosmetics to keep it that way."

I could hear the Phantom muttering to himself; I smiled.

He was as vain as a peacock.

After a few more minutes or so, the Phantom stopped making noises, and I sat down on the floor, and thought. Surprisingly, I fell asleep against the door.

Of course, this was understandable. It had been a disruptive night. I was tired.

* * *

><p><em>Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.<em>

"Katelienne, wake up."

"Hmm?" I blinked and looked around the tiny bathroom. "Oh. Did I fall asleep?"

"It seems so," the Phantom said, from behind the door. "Get up so I can open the door. I poured the dye out the window."

I used the counter to get to my feet, wincing at the soreness in my neck. "Goodness. How long was I asleep? Oh, and I hope you didn't splash anyone with it."

"Only a few minutes." Something clicked, and the door swung open, revealing an amused Phantom holding a lock pick. "And no, I didn't. I can aim, you see."

"Lovely," I said, going past him into the room. "This is rather pathetic – my sleeping pattern has been so destroyed that I'm falling asleep in Luke's disgusting bathroom."

"Which is another reason why I should skip disturbing the audience tonight and stay here," the Phantom said, throwing himself onto the couch before I could reach it. I rerouted my path toward the bed.

"No, it is not. I should take a nap now, while you're here, and then I'll be well-rested when you leave."

The Phantom scowled, but I had won, so I sat down on my bed and grinned.

"Actually, I feel pretty good. I don't need a nap. Let's play a game."

"What sort of game?" the Phantom asked. "I'll win."

* * *

><p>After the Phantom won three games of chess and I won two, we declared it even. Actually, <em>I<em> declared it even, and the Phantom insisted that he had won.

"I won the game of checkers," I said, eating a cracker with cheese. The Phantom had snuck down to the kitchen and nicked some food. "Therefore, as you say, it was a tie."

"I won at chess," the Phantom said, stubbornly. He was eating two crackers at once (no cheese), and somehow not spilling any crumbs on his shirt. "So I won."

"We tied," I said, flicking bits of food off my skirt. "So I won, and you won, and we can both be happy."

"I'm not happy," the Phantom said, indicating his dour face. "See? Not happy."

"Who cares," I said. I ate another cracker. "Why didn't you get any chocolate? I _specifically_ asked you to bring chocolate."

The Phantom raised one eyebrow. "They were using the chocolate to make a cake, so I couldn't really reach down from the ceiling and snatch out of their hands."

"And yet," I mused, "somehow you managed to pour castor oil into cake batter and into jelly rolls and into… what was it? Oh yes, the drinks."

"The _punch_," the Phantom corrected me. "And I did that when there was no one there except for that old, doddering head chef. He's about a thousand years old."

"He is not. He's only about sixty or something. And he's nice."

"You're the one that wanted me to horrify the audience," the Phantom said, grinning. He knew I only wanted to disagree with him.

"Shut up," I said, disagreeably, and went to find a different game to play. "Do you like Hearts?"

"I hate card games," the Phantom said, stretching his legs out and taking over my end of the couch.

"I love them," I retorted. "You don't like anything interesting."

The Phantom went into one of his mumbling phases again, so I ignored him and continued to dig around in Luke's desk.

"You're not going to find anything in there. Why don't you try looking in the bookshelf?"

"We destroyed the bookshelf, remember?" I said, waving my hand at the empty, battered shelves. "You find a game. I'm bored."

The Phantom got to his feet and lifted the couch, tilting it up so the front legs came off the floor. "Here's some old cheese. And half a banana. And some other moldy objects of food, and a few beer bottles. And nothing else."

No wonder the couch smelled so rancid. "Never mind. How about you entertain me?"

The Phantom dropped the couch with a crash. "What?"

"I'm not repeating it," I said, sitting down on the bed and crossing my arms. "You heard me."

The Phantom eyed me for a moment. Then he walked into the center of the room, reached out a hand towards the ceiling, threw back his head, and declaimed:

"She walks in beauty, like the night  
>Of cloudless climes and starry skies;<br>And all that's best of dark and bright  
>Meet in her aspect and her eyes:<br>Thus mellowed to that tender light  
>Which heaven to gaudy day denies."<p>

"I take it back," I said quickly, as he paused for breath. "Never again. Never again will I ask you to entertain me. What _was_ that nonsense?"

"Lord Byron," the Phantom said, dropping his hand (which had been flailing around as he spoke) and staring at me in horror. "There is something irrevocably wrong with you."

"I have a better idea," I said, ignoring his rude comments about my mental health. "You should show me how to pick a lock."

"No. Absolutely not. Society's ills would only increase if I introduced someone as _innocent_ and _malleable_ as you to my evil, dastardly ways."

I raised my eyebrows. "Then show me how to throw a knife."

"No."

"Show me how to see in the dark?"

"What? Oh. No. You can't learn it, anyways. It's an _acquired_ talent."

"You are a terrible roommate," I said. "How about you sing a song? Something witty, if you please. My mood is becoming blacker by the minute."

The Phantom was only too eager to agree.

His song went like this:

"Somewhere, a bird is singing

Singing of the spring that soon will come

And when the bird sees the spring

The bird will no longer have to sing

Because the bird will eat the worm

And the worm will be dead

And the bird will be happy

And the worm will be mush

And the bird will feed the mush to her babies

And the mush will become mushier

And -"

He broke off. "What? I like it. I made it up on the spot."

I had made a terrible face of disgust. "I realized that. Never mind. Your tune is lovely, but your words are absolutely… no, I cannot describe them. They are beyond words. They were awful."

The Phantom went all stony again and refused to speak.

I scowled and wished I had something to throw at him besides pillows. "All right, if you're done making fun of me, perhaps you can leave. It is ten o'clock. You should be getting ready for the performance."

"I thought you might have had forgotten," the Phantom said, drawing the corners of his lips into a grimace. "Perhaps I should have sung something more horrible."

"No, no," I said hastily, "one song was quite enough. Why don't you find me another weapon? And then you can leave."

"I bow to your commands, of course, as I always do," he said sarcastically.

He took a knife from his pocket and threw it in my direction. I ducked, and made no attempt to catch it.

"It was sheathed," he said, as it bounced off the bookshelf onto the floor. "Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to reach adulthood."

"Oh, shut up," I said, reaching over the back of the couch to pick the knife up. "Have fun at the opera!"

"Have fun watching the murderer?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'll try."

The Phantom turned to look at me, his hand on the doorknob. "Be cautious. I don't want to come back here and find out something went wrong."

He was being vague on purpose, I knew; neither of us wanted to discuss the possible scenarios.

I shook my head. "I'll be careful. Besides, as you pointed out earlier, I can climb out the window if something happens. And I have one knife and two bottles of sedatives and nine syringes and three ropes and six pieces of cloth, thanks to you. I can handle it."

"I'll see you in an hour," the Phantom said. He opened the door, glanced back once at me, and was gone.


	35. Chapter 35: Striped Carnation

I leaned my head back against the cushions of the sofa and stared at the bumpy ceiling, my fingers toying with the rough edges of one of Luke's books. There had been no sound from behind the bookcase for at least twenty minutes.

My knife lay on the table next to the couch, its sharp edge glinting in the candlelight; next to it sat a pile of syringes and a glass bottle of sedative. I had gathered up the rest of the weapons and other defensive instruments and put them in an old chest next to the desk. It wouldn't be good if Luke somehow managed to get out of the passageway and find a handy weapon lying around to fight with.

I was mulling over the Phantom's gentleness towards me last night (hoping I hadn't blubbered like a fool for more than a few minutes) when I heard a soft scratching from behind the bookcase. I reached over to the table and picked up my knife; slowly rose to my feet, and turned to glance at the empty shelves.

Well, the bookcase was firmly in place, and it was clear Luke hadn't broken back into his room, seeing as it was still empty. I dragged a chair over from behind the desk and set it in the center of the room, dropping my knife on the ground next to it. I would sit here until the Phantom came back.

I found several books (some of which looked interesting; others, I planned to use for a footrest), located the plate of crackers the Phantom had left on a thrown sofa cushion, and filled a glass with water. If I was going to sit here all night, I reasoned, I may as well be comfortable.

I settled into my throne, put my feet up on my books, and opened a novel, biting into a cracker.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, there was a soft retching sound from the passageway. I straightened in my chair and stared at the bookshelf. It hadn't moved.<p>

Of course it hadn't, I told myself. The Phantom had locked it. Luke was not going to be able to come out. And even if he did, I was more than a match for an ill, half-sedated man with the reflexes of a snail.

I went back to my book.

The gagging continued; I closed my eyes and put the book down and reached for something heavy. Ah, a candlestick.

I threw it at the bookshelf: there was a satisfying _crack_ as it hit the wood, and the horrible sounds abruptly ceased.

I picked up my book again and turned the page.

Another series of noises: it sounded as though Luke was dragging himself along the floor.

I sought for something else to lob at the shelves, found only a plate, sighed, and heaved it.

It shattered on the shelf, and the pieces thumped onto the floor with a glass-like tinkle of broken pottery.

There was silence.

I turned another page.

* * *

><p>"<em>Katelienne… Katelienne… Let me out…"<em>

"The creepy whispers are not going to persuade me, Luke," I said, flipping to another chapter.

"_I can't breathe… Let me out…"_

"Hmm… If there was a voice telling me to let a murderer out, what would I do? Well… I really can't think of anything useful at the moment. Perhaps I should open the door and see what he has to say? He might be very informative."

"_Katelienne! Please! I… can't… breathe…"_

I yawned and glanced at the clock.

I still had more than half an hour left.

When the Phantom came back, he and I were going to drag Luke down to the subterranean lake and throw him in.

Eventually, Luke's histrionics died down, and I was able to read more than ten pages of my book.

After a few more minutes of blessed silence, I decided that this was suspicious: any good villain's pleadings would have lasted longer than only fifteen minutes. I got to my feet and approached the bookcase, intending to listen for sounds of life.

It appeared that Luke was still breathing, judging from the eerie whistling noises from within, so I went back to my chair and propped my feet up again.

* * *

><p>Tap. Tap. Tap.<p>

Someone was knocking on the door. I jumped to my feet and nearly tripped over my makeshift footstool. Who would be up here during a performance?

No one trustworthy, that was sure. I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the door.

All I could see was a lining of dust and what appeared to be a pair of shoes. Heavy soles; a man's boots.

"Luke?"

I crawled back to my knife and picked it up, getting carefully to my feet amid the stacks of papers and piles of trash. I didn't want to bump anything and risk making a noise.

"Luke?" the male person outside asked again, more audibly. "I know you're in there. You're supposed to be in your box. People are wondering what happened to you."

I held my breath, praying that Luke couldn't hear him. Who knew what would happen if Luke started kicking the bookshelf or something. He'd probably break down the door.

There was a long minute of silence, during which sweat dripped in a long line down the back of my neck, and in which the person outside did not speak.

"Luke?" he asked, finally.

Silence.

Then there was the glorious sound of the person leaving, his footsteps retreating into the depths of Opera House. I let out my breath in a quiet whoosh.

Why hadn't Luke done anything? I turned to look, wondering what he was planning.

Something rattled from behind the wall, and the bookshelf opened.

* * *

><p>I had the presence of mind to race for the window without a second thought: even if Luke was exhausted, he had managed to pry open the bookshelf, so he was clearly able to form a coherent plan of action.<p>

I did not reach it: something latched onto my ankle and I fell, grabbing for something to hold onto, anything at all, but my cheekbone smacked into the wooden corner of the bed and stars erupted in my vision, blinding me.

Luke had dived and grabbed my ankle, and he had let go, so I staggered to my feet. I was reeling in pain, and furious.

The manager was standing only a few feet away, his chest heaving with the force of his breathing.

He had my knife.

He lunged and slashed in the same movement; I gasped soundlessly and side-stepped him as he barely missed me.

I noticed, dimly, that it felt as though the right side of my face was on fire. I was sure the edge of the bed had opened a gash.

Luke slipped on a stack of papers as he tried to stab me again, and went down, landing behind me, blocking the window and cursing breathlessly.

I grabbed up a handful of syringes and the bottle of sedative, and fled into the passageway, pulling the bookshelf shut behind me with a bang.

* * *

><p>I found the lever that kept it locked from the outside and yanked it down. It would keep Luke out for a short while, if not for an hour or more, judging from the steel bolt that had just slid into place. I hurried down the catwalk, pausing to tear a long strip of cloth from the bottom of my petticoats and pressed it to my face.<p>

The bookshelf was rattling ominously from behind me: I broke into a run, realized that I might fall into one of the Phantom's traps, and stopped.

_Rattle. Rattle. Thump. Bang. Rattle._

"Lovely," I mumbled, still holding the cloth to my cut. "I'm in one of the Phantom's ridiculous passageways, with a murderer only inches behind me, and no candles."

I thrust my arm out to the left, searching for a trapdoor, a rope, something, and my fingers hit something solid. The wall.

I left my hand on it: my father had told me once that anyone could find their way out of a maze if they kept their hand on the wall the entire way through. I didn't know how this worked, but it was worth a try. I took a few steps, my fingers seeking for an opening, but they found nothing.

The bookshelf made one final rattle from behind me, something crashed, and it burst open, revealing Luke's silhouette in the opening for one moment before it closed.

I took my hand off the wall and ran.

* * *

><p>I was very lucky when I tripped over a bump on the catwalk: it was a dead rat, but my hands reached out to stop myself from falling, and they latched onto the rung of a ladder.<p>

I pulled myself up through sheer adrenaline and began to climb. Luke was only minutes behind me, and while I was the faster runner, he was stronger, and so we were unevenly matched.

As I put my foot onto the third rung, it creaked and groaned and crumbled; I gasped, bit my lip to stop from screaming, and scrambled for another foothold. I finally managed to work my left foot onto the fourth rung, and promptly smacked my head into the roof – which opened.

A trapdoor. _I love trapdoors_, I told myself, and pulled myself into the passageway above.

* * *

><p>It was the tiled corridor from a week ago.<p>

I scrambled away from the trapdoor and closed it softly, looking around.

The torches were still lit, which was very nice, but this section of corridor I had not crossed before. I turned my head to the left: I thought I could see the red and blue tiles glimmering faintly in the distance, but I wasn't sure. The right side was a long line of white tiles, which spelled danger in their plainness.

The trapdoor groaned, softly: someone was coming up the ladder.

I made a split-second decision and dashed off, heading down the right side of the corridor, praying that I would get around the corridor before Luke came through the trapdoor.

It seemed that I had; I whisked around the turn and pelted into a different corridor: this one's walls were painted black and the floor was slick, polished wood.

The torches on the walls flashed by me in long streamers of gold and red and orange, blurring at the corners of my vision. I could feel the blood on my face dripping down my chin, and wondered briefly if I had left a trail of bloodstains behind me. If I had, Luke would be sure to find me. I lifted the cloth and pressed it to my face again.

As I neared the end of the corridor (I could see the door gleaming in the shadows – it was lined with gold from the light beyond it) I tried to listen for Luke, but I could hear nothing but the pounding of my blood and the whistling of my breath.

I reached for the doorknob, still running, intending to pull the door open and fly through. My hand smashed into solid wood, and I barely managed to stop the rest of my body from following my hand. I came to a halt and panted for breath, afraid to look up to see if Luke was there.

The door was a fake; it had been painted on the wall. I had reached a dead end.

* * *

><p>When Luke rounded the corner, holding a torch and carrying my knife in his other hand, I lashed out from my position against the wall with a loaded syringe.<p>

It did not sink into his neck. His hand came up to block me – it was the hand with the knife, and I flinched away, and kicked at his legs. The syringe fell to the floor; I thought I heard it crunch under Luke's shoes.

The torch was suddenly in my face, its heat burning at the tender skin of my eyelids, tugging at the flammable wisps of my hair: I pressed myself into the wall and swung wildly at Luke's arm.

The torch fell back, Luke stepped forward, and I slid away into the larger corridor, breaking into a run, the blood from my face running down my neck.

The knife whizzed past me and sunk into the wall next to my head; I gasped and ran faster, hoping to reach the end of the corridor, but Luke was suddenly _right behind me_, snatching at my arm.

I fought his half-grip and dug my nails briefly into his hand, letting go as he cried out in pain, and continued to run.

He had found the knife again; it flashed past my arm and sunk itself between two tiles into the grout, and I reached down to pick it up. If I had a knife – perhaps I could fend him off –

But I was a fool – Luke had thrown it for that very reason, and he tackled me as my fingers brushed the handle of the knife.

My head smacked into the stones again; I felt one of my fingers crack, and Luke pinned me to the stones.

His groping fingers found the syringe in my pocket (the bottle had broken in the fall; I could feel it seeping through my dress). It was filled with sedatives; I had made sure to ready a few before the Phantom left.

Luke twisted my arm behind my back, wrenching the fragile bones in my wrist, and sunk the needle into the soft flesh of my upper arm.

I cried out, and everything went fuzzy and still and black.


	36. Chapter 36: Deadly Nightshade

_Thank you all for the enthusiastic reviews! I am so happy to get them! _

_And now, for the resolved cliffhanger:_

* * *

><p>It smelled like blood, and the sickly-sweet odor was so strong that I could taste it.<p>

Something was caked on my cheek, something sticky and clotted; probably dried blood from my gash. My mouth was dry; my eyes seemed to be glued shut. I could feel something cold around my right wrist, an icy bracelet; possibly steel.

I was leaning against the cool, smooth plaster of a wall.

I tried to swallow, but only coughed; my throat felt like sandpaper.

Someone spoke, above me. The words rang weirdly in the air. "I know you're awake, Katelienne. Open your eyes and look at me."

* * *

><p>I opened my eyes.<p>

I was sitting on the white tiles in the same corridor, my back against the wall. Most of the torches had gone out, leaving only a small circle of light of about two feet around me; the rest of the corridor was dark. The tiles next to me were stained with blood; one large red spot resembled a handprint.

Luke knelt in front of me, his blue eyes moving back and forth across my face.

He opened his hand and held it, palm up, in front of me. "What is this, Katelienne?"

It was the vial of truth serum.

I stared at the tiny glass bottle in his pale hand. "I… I don't know." My voice was ragged, weak.

My cheek itched madly; I lifted my arm to touch it, but it would not obey me; the icy bracelet on my arm held it still. Something clinked: a length of chain. I turned my head stiffly, to look down.

Luke followed my gaze.

"I thought it better to chain you down than to let you run away, Katelienne. You're a feisty one."

He laid undue emphasis on "feisty," drawing the word out until it became obscene.

There was a loop of metal set into the wall. Luke had cuffed me to it with a length of chain, wrapping the links tightly around my wrist. I reached over with my left hand, involuntarily seeking to free myself, and Luke leaned a little closer, catching my wrist in a sweaty, tight grasp, and twisted. He was smiling, as though he didn't realize he was causing me pain. His eyes stared, unblinkingly, into mine.

I pulled my hand away, the adrenaline thrumming in my ears again as my body began to throw off the sedative's effects, and Luke let me go.

He sat back on his heels and twisted the cork out of the vial.

"Since you don't know what this is, Katelienne," he said, bending towards me again, "perhaps I should give it to you and find out."

The hilt of his stolen knife was almost within my reach – if he bent a little nearer I could snatch it from his belt.

But he rose to his feet, and the knife rose with him. He stood looking down at me. "On second thought…"

He drew the knife from his belt, its point dangling dangerously close to my cheek, and whipped it backwards over his shoulder. It thumped into the wall and hung there, trembling.

Luke crouched down again and reached for a loop of rope from the floor, setting the glass vial carefully against the opposite wall, where I could not reach it.

"Now, if you'll just hold still," he cautioned, "this won't take long," and he bent to knot the rope around my ankles.

* * *

><p>I fought back, kicking at his lowered head and reaching hands and midsection, but eventually he wound my legs with rope and tied my free arm to my side, and picked up the vial.<p>

He reached forward and took hold of my chin and upper jaw, to pull my mouth open – I bit down on his thumb, savagely, worrying it like an animal. He slapped me, hard, so that my ears rang, and pulled his hand away from my teeth.

His eyes were wild; furious.

I spat out his blood, spraying it haphazardly across the white tiles into the darkness, and glared back at him, unable to form words.

His shoulders heaved as he took a long, slow breath; his expression became remote, thoughtful, and he smiled again.

"Let's try that again, shall we?" he asked, and turned to pull the knife from the wall. He tapped the flat of the blade against his fingers and stared down at me.

Then he knelt on the tiles, ignoring the blood, and held the knife in front of my face.

"You will drink what's in that vial," he said, his voice calm, controlled, sane, "or I will cut off one of those lovely, womanly fingers."

I opened my mouth.

* * *

><p>Luke put the knife down, lifted the vial, and tipped the serum down my throat.<p>

"Now," he said, dropping the vial to shatter on the tiles (the glass leapt past me, one piece nicking my arm as it flew into the air), "from what I remember – albeit dimly – that potion you just drank causes one to _tell the truth_."

The serum had burnt like fire when it hit the lacerated tissue of my throat – I could only cough, and gasp for air in reply.

Luke waited until I finished hacking my lungs out before he spoke again.

"So now you are going to tell me what you are doing here. The _real_ reason, if you please."

_Claire._ The word bubbled up into my mouth, threatening to spill between my lips, but I held it in.

"Very well," Luke said, after a moment. "I'll ask you again. Why are you here?"

The air was thickening like fog; his words echoed in my head, and I wondered, faintly, why I shouldn't simply tell him the truth.

Claire's face burst into my mind, floating before me. Ghostly, but there. A warning.

I blinked. "No."

* * *

><p>Luke came slowly back into focus.<p>

He was frowning, his light eyebrows nearly forming a V over his aquiline nose. "Are you actually attempting to fight the drug, Katelienne? I asked you why you came to the opera. Answer the question."

"No," I said, determined to hold onto the word. "I won't… I won't tell you."

"I'll rephrase, then. Why are you really here?"

I said nothing.

Luke rose to his feet, paced a few feet into the darkness, returned.

"We should have started smaller, as the Phantom did when he questioned me. Clever man. So I'll ask you this simple question instead. A child could answer it. What is your name?"

There was only the sound of the torch burning over my head, a soft crackling. I could see the air dimming again.

"Tell me your name."

The fog gathered around me, pulling me into its cold arms.

"Tell me your name."

"I… I won't."

* * *

><p>The fog rippled, melted away, vanished completely.<p>

Luke had slapped me; I could feel the blow imprinted in my face, a throbbing handprint.

I watched dazedly as he reached for the knife, slid it between his fingers, breathed on the shining metal.

He lifted it and set the blade next to my left shoulder – my dress had torn during the previous struggle, and now the sleeve hung half off, baring the skin of my upper arm.

"Tell me your name."

"You... can rot... in hell," I whispered.

Luke sliced down. There was a searing line of pain, a long stripe of agony; a terrible burning in the flesh of my shoulder.

I closed my eyes.

"Your name, Katelienne, or I'll cut you again. Perhaps I'll write something."

The blood was running down my shoulder, spattering onto my hand, the quick droplets soaking the ripped sleeve of my gown.

But I said nothing.

* * *

><p>I felt the air move as the knife came down again, but it never reached me. Someone cried out in a strangled high-pitched whimper, and something clattered metallically to the tiles.<p>

I kept my eyes shut tightly: I didn't want to know what was going on; I wanted to melt through the ground and disappear. I knew Luke was only messing with me. I could feel the cut burning on my shoulder.

* * *

><p>I was so far gone that when the second voice spoke, I wasn't sure if I had heard it before.<p>

"Katelienne? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes? Please, Katelienne."

Someone was prying at the chains around my wrist, tugging at the links. My hand fell away from the wall.

Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes, pulling my freed hand to my chest.

Dark hair, light green eyes, warm tanned skin, white mask...

"Phantom."

He touched the dried mass on my cheek. "You're hurt."

"I am," I said, feeling the serum's effects washing over me again, and this time I was unable to refuse its pull.

"What did he do to you? Your eyes – they're dilated."

"Truth serum," I said, the words falling over themselves, spilling out so fast that I began to mumble, "and he hit me. And cut my arm. And he gave me a sedative. Your sedative."

He didn't speak for a moment; I couldn't see his face.

"You don't have to answer my questions," he said at last. He was cutting through the ropes around my legs. "Sit still while I do this."

I closed my eyes again. The fog was making me dizzy. "Luke."

"Unconscious. Actually, it's more likely that he's half-dead. He won't be getting up for a long time."

The rope slid away from my ankles; the Phantom started on my arm.

"I don't feel… well."

"Take deep breaths."

I tried. The fog rose again, faded, resolved itself once more, dissolved again.

Slowly, my lips formed words. "The audience?"

"Was terrified." He finished cutting the rope away and helped me to my feet. "I threw food at them. Lots of it."

"Oh."

"No, don't try to walk by yourself. Lean on me."

I breathed in sharply, wincing as I took my first, painful steps. "What about... Luke?"

"Tied up. He's hanging from the ceiling. See?"

My eyes slowly followed his finger: Luke was bound and upside down, his head several feet above the tiles, swinging gently back and forth in the air.

His eyes were shut; there was a nasty gash across his forehead, dripping into a red puddle on the tiles.

I said, dully, turning my head away, "I want to go home."

The Phantom put his arm carefully around my waist, supporting my weight. "I'll take you to your room."


	37. Chapter 37: Lily of the Valley

_Thank you for all the reviews!_

* * *

><p>Later, I sat in my desk chair, staring out the open balcony door at the night.<p>

The Phantom had left to transport Luke to his room ("permanently", he had said). Madame Giry was downstairs, rinsing my bloody clothes out in the laundry room. I was supposed to be resting, but I couldn't bring myself to lie down.

I kept seeing Luke's pale face rising out of the darkness; his blue eyes grinning with pleasure at my pain; his fingers around the hilt of my knife.

The knife was now sitting on a pile of papers on my desk, clean and dried, its blade no longer stained with my blood.

The clock ticked on in the corner, the hands slowly revolving; my eyelids began to droop, and finally the door to my room opened.

* * *

><p>"Katelienne," Madame Giry said, carrying a laundry basket, and eyeing me disapprovingly, "I thought I told you to lie down."<p>

I glanced at her. "I can't fall asleep."

She closed the door and put the basket down before replying, a wisp of hair from her bun falling over her forehead.

"You aren't lying down, though, dear. You should try lying down and closing your eyes."

Unbidden, Luke's face leapt into my mind: I would only see him if I slept. He would be in my nightmares now, not Claire, and somehow, somehow this was even worse than the grief.

"I don't want to sleep."

I rose to my feet and walked to the balcony door, pushed it completely open, went to the railing.

The city was clear and still in the moonlight; the houses and shops gleaming in the stillness of the night. I rested my elbows on the metal rail, stared up unseeingly at the stars. Something wet slipped down my cheek.

"Oh, Katelienne," Madame Giry said, from behind me. "I am so sorry."

She put a tentative hand on my shoulder; I turned, and she hugged me.

It was a hug only a mother could give, soft and warm and reassuring, real. When I let go, she took my hands in hers.

"I would never have left you alone with that monster," she said. "Never."

I knew what she was implying, but I did not want to go there. I shook my head. "I know you wouldn't have."

Her eyes were fierce, but she smiled tremulously at me and let my hands slip away. "Where is he?"

"In his room," I said, wondering who she was talking about. "The Phantom brought him there."

"I meant... Oh," she said. "I meant the Phantom."

I nodded. "He's gone to put Luke back in his room."

Madame Giry frowned. "Go lie down, Katelienne. I'll go see what's keeping him."

* * *

><p>When she had left, I curled up in the center of my bed, careful not to lie on my injured shoulder. Truthfully, everything ached, but with some help from Madame Giry, I had bandaged the cuts on my shoulder and face, and gotten into clean clothes.<p>

Luke's face swam into my vision again; I squeezed my eyes shut and thought: _Be sensible. He's locked in his room. He can't hurt you._

"Katelienne?"

I started and sat up, staring at the door. It was open. "Hello."

"Do you mind if I come in?"

"You never asked before," I pointed out, inwardly hoping that my eyes weren't red. "You may as well come in."

The Phantom shut the door behind him and sat down in my desk chair. "Luke's not going to stir for quite a while."

"What did you do to him?"

"Gave him a double dose of sedatives. And I decided not to leave him in his room because of the secret passageway – I put him in one of the rooms in the older section of the Opera, where no one goes anymore."

I pleated my blanket hem between my fingers, thinking.

"Phantom, we can't keep hiding him. I know people are becoming suspicious."

"We don't have a choice, Katelienne."

The candle on my desk flickered in the wind from his sigh. He picked up one of my papers.

I pulled my legs up to my chest and rested my chin on my knees, watching him skim through my writing. He looked very tired.

"I don't blame you for going down to the performance," I said. "I asked you to."

He looked up, letting the paper slide through his fingers. "I shouldn't have left."

"I was careless," I said. "I forgot the candles when I went into the passageway."

Something changed in his face then; his eyes went dark and somber, and he rose to his feet.

"It wasn't your fault."

"And I fell for Luke's ruse – he threw the knife and I tried to pick it up."

"Katelienne, it wasn't your fault."

"I should have been more careful," I said, ignoring him. I could see all my errors plainly now – if I hadn't made so many mistakes, perhaps I wouldn't have had to…

"Katelienne. Stop."

I looked up at him: he had crossed the room, and now he stood before me, his whole body tense.

"You're wrong. I should have stayed with you; I should have given Luke more sedatives, I should have checked the bookcase door. I assumed – stupidly, irrevocably, _idiotically_ – that everything was going to be fine. I never should have left."

"Why are you blaming yourself?" I asked, my temper rising inexplicably. "You should blame Luke! He's the one who hurt me! The one who started all of this!"

"Yes, yes, but I was also to blame! I was, Katelienne! And I am so, so sorry."

We stared at each other; I was aware of the heavy silence that had fallen, but I could not think of how to break it.

"It's not your fault," I said, finally. "Please, don't blame yourself. If there's any blame to be given – it falls on Luke."

The Phantom turned away. "I wish that was the case."

* * *

><p>I climbed out of bed and went to stand in front of him, my bare feet cold on the wooden boards.<p>

"Look, if you turn into a moody, sullen fool over this, I will never forgive you. I don't blame you, so don't blame yourself. And stop staring at me like you're about to weep."

The corner of his lip quirked up. "I was not intending to weep."

"Well, then act like it," I said, sitting down in my desk chair and picking up my pen, wincing as my shoulder ached. "I'm not going to let Luke stop me from being happy, and neither should you."

The Phantom came to lean on the back of my chair. "What are you doing?"

"I am making a list."

"A list," he repeated. "What for?"

"Wait and see," I said, beginning to write.

_1. Visit Cooper at the hospital; see if he's recovered, or if he's dead._

_2. Go to the masquerade._

_3. Speak with Count Le Nansen and reassure him that everything is okay. Lie._

_4. Somehow, turn Luke in to the police._

"Why do you want to visit Cooper?" the Phantom asked.

"I'd like to check on him," I said. "Perhaps we can blackmail him into talking to the police."

The Phantom raised an eyebrow. "Do _you_ have money?"

"No," I said, underlining number 4 several times. "I was hoping you did."

"No, I don't. And why do you want to go to the masquerade? You know Jeanette and the Count will wonder where Luke is – they'll think you're supposed to be with him."

"We're all going to be wearing masks," I pointed out. "I won't wear my Autumn costume; I'll wear a different gown. And I'll dye my hair. They won't even recognize me."

"Katelienne," the Phantom said, in a gentle tone, "you are falling asleep over your list. I highly doubt you would agree to dye your hair brown, especially after yesterday's episode. We can discuss the masquerade tomorrow. You should go to bed."

It was true; the words were blurring before my eyes, but I shook my head. "I'd rather stay up. I can sleep in the morning."

He reached down and took the pen from my hand, his warm fingers brushing mine. "I think you should go to bed now."

As if in agreement, the door swung open and Madame Giry came back in, now bearing a box. She looked from the Phantom to me and scowled.

"I told that girl to go to bed ages ago. What is she doing up?"

"Talking," I said, pulling the pen out of the Phantom's fingers and dropping it on the desk. "I'll sleep in a little while. What is that?"

Madame Giry put the box on my side table and placed one hand on her hip.

"Katelienne. In bed. Now."

I rose sullenly to my feet, stumbled slightly, and the Phantom caught my arm.

I looked up at him. "I'm fine."

He let go.

Madame Giry tapped her foot impatiently. "Phantom. Go away."

"I'm leaving," he said hurriedly, and headed for the door. "Goodnight, Katelienne."

"Goodnight," I said, sinking down on my bed, and the Phantom slipped out into the corridor. "Madame Giry, what is in that box?"

"I brought you some stage makeup to hide that cut on your face. I also thought we could pull your hair over it tomorrow, if the makeup doesn't work, for when you go to visit Cooper."

I glanced up at her. "How did you know about that?"

"I have ears," she snapped. "And I'm coming with you tomorrow, seeing as the Phantom can't."

"You're coming with me? But Cooper doesn't know who you are."

"So? You can introduce me. Now, I'm staying in your room tonight, and the Phantom has designated himself Luke's guard, so nothing is going to happen."

I got to my feet. "Well. I see nothing is going to change your mind, so I'll simply agree and save you the trouble of arguing with me. Let me go change into my nightgown."

"And don't you even think of giving me the bed – I'll sleep on your couch," Madame Giry said, as if she had not heard a word I said. "And drink some water while you're in the bathroom – you look like you're about to pass out."

* * *

><p>I obeyed Madame Giry's commands, moving like an automaton through my tasks. It was nearly two in the morning; I heard the bells ring the time outside. My limbs were slow, and stiff, and aching by the time I opened the bathroom door.<p>

Madame Giry had made up a bed for herself on the couch; she smiled at me and said goodnight, as I blew out the candles.

I climbed into bed, turning to face the balcony door, and nearly had a heart attack.

Something long and dark was blowing in the wind outside, swaying back and forth behind the door.

I realized, gradually, that it was my dress. Madame Giry must have hung it out there to dry.

For some reason this struck me as funny: a low giggle started in my throat, and I quickly buried my head in my pillows before Madame Giry could hear. She would probably think I was having hysterics, and she would not be far off from the truth.

* * *

><p>When I woke the next morning, there were birds singing outside, and the sunlight was bright on the wooden floor.<p>

Something smelled good: I sat up, nearly cried out at the horrible pain in the back of my head and my cheek, bit my lip instead, and turned to see a breakfast tray on the edge of my bed.

"Good morning," Madame Giry said briskly. "There's your breakfast; I have to go wake the ballet girls and start the morning rehearsals. Do not – I repeat, _do not _leave for the hospital without me. I will be back around lunch."

She finished pinning her hair up in front of the mirror, stared critically at it, nodded, and turned to look at me.

I realized I was supposed to have answered her. "Oh. I won't leave. You have my word."

"Good. Er – I mean, the Phantom – will be up here in a moment," she said, picking up her cane from next to the couch. "You should probably go get dressed. Have a nice breakfast."

And with that, she was out the door, and I was alone in my room.

I got up, passed the mirror, and stopped in astonishment, staring in horror at my forehead. My bandage on my head had slipped during the night, revealing the large, purple, bruise-encircled cut at the base of my hairline.

"This is lovely," I said. "I adore gashes; they add so much character."

I picked up the makeup box from the bedside table and hurried into the bathroom. It would not do if the Phantom arrived to find me still in my nightclothes.


	38. Chapter 38: Ivy Blossom

_Wow, readers, you are all so very amazing! Thank you for your reviews! And don't worry about the Phantom and Katelienne - I have it all worked out in my head, and I promise everything will end up well!_

* * *

><p>He was standing outside on the balcony when I came out of the bathroom. I put the makeup box down on the table and went to open the balcony door fully, for it was mostly closed. The light morning wind rushed past me into the room, tugging at the papers at my desk, pulling lightly at my hair.<p>

"You can come inside if you want. You don't have to stay out here."

The Phantom turned to look at me, his hands in his pockets, a smile beginning to form on his lips. As I watched, confused, it crumbled away, and his face went cold.

"Your forehead…"

He stepped nearer, his light green eyes lowered to my cut.

"It's fine," I said, resisting the urge to reach up and touch the wound, "really. Come sit down inside; there's fresh tea."

As he followed me over the threshold, I couldn't shake the strong, nagging perception that he was unhappy. I wanted to glance back at him and examine his expression, but I couldn't make myself turn around.

I was afraid of what I might see.

"I'll go do my makeup, and then I'll come back."

The Phantom nodded and sat down on the couch, running his fingers absentmindedly over the bottom edge of his white mask.

* * *

><p>I slipped inside the bathroom and shut the door, leaning against it as I tried to corral my thoughts into coherence. Clearly, the Phantom was still blaming himself for last night's events. How could I convince him that he was not the one who had instigated them? Would anything I said make him feel better? I did not want him to suffer needlessly. No, nor suffer at all.<p>

I opened the box of makeup and began applying it, gingerly, to my forehead. Slowly, the flesh-colored powder covered the abrasion, and I stared into the mirror at the nearly invisible bruise. Tentatively, with a gradual balloon of surprise growing in my chest, I smiled cautiously at my reflection. Madame Giry's gift had worked.

I was wearing one of my silk gowns, a dark green one, today – anything rougher would irritate my healing shoulder. Pulling the sleeve down, I turned to the side to look at Luke's crude handiwork.

I had not seen the scar yet.

It was a dark red line, about one inch long and two centimeters or so wide. There was a small deviation at the bottom of the line, a little turn: the entire cut resembled a slanted, misshapen _L_, though the base was too short.

I pulled the sleeve up with a jerk. _Don't waste your time worrying over a scar, _I told myself, and marched out of the bathroom. I had a guest to tend to, after all.

* * *

><p>The Phantom had devoured more than half of the tea cakes and biscuits on the breakfast tray, leaving only a few crumbs in their place. He glanced up as I sat down next to him.<p>

"Sorry. I couldn't resist. It was just sitting here, begging to be eaten."

I laughed and picked up a tea cake, its soft sides crumbling at the touch of my fingers. "Don't apologize; I never could have eaten all this by myself. Madame Giry must think I'm very hungry indeed."

His long fingers paused elegantly over the tray as he selected another biscuit. "Well, if you insist, I'll eat more. Fresh food is always better than the rejects I steal from the kitchens."

Something twanged painfully inside of me at his words. Did he really eat only stolen food – and old food at that? And while I was feasting in my room on delicious, hot breakfasts…

He had seen the expression on my face, for he laughed and popped the biscuit into his mouth, speaking between chews.

"Don't look so horrified – I buy food every now and then; I'm not famished. I chose to live here, remember?"

I picked up the teapot and refilled his cup. "Well, while I'm here, you're welcome to share every one of my breakfasts. And lunches and dinners too – I always bring too much food back."

"I will certainly take you up on that offer," he replied, and handed me a teacup. "Aren't you going to have any tea?"

I took the cup from him and poured myself some.

* * *

><p>We sat in companionable silence after we finished our meal, letting the food settle. My feet were cold; I thought about getting up to stir the fire, but it was more pleasant just to sit here and rest. I wondered what the Phantom thought about this breakfast; if he felt better now than before.<p>

The Phantom turned his head to look at me sideways, one green eye fixing itself on me. "I hear you're going to visit Cooper today."

"That's the plan, yes," I answered, rising to gather the empty plates onto the tray. "We'll see if it actually happens."

He nodded, and gazed thoughtfully at the teapot.

"Do you want some more tea?" I reached for his cup.

"No, I was only thinking about something. But I'll have more anyway. Thank you."

I poured him some more and sat down again, curling my legs up under my skirts. "What - what were you thinking about?"

Perhaps he hadn't wanted me to ask, and I immediately regretted doing so, as this new idea struck me. But now the question was irretrievable. It hung motionless in the air, waiting.

The Phantom dragged his fingers through his hair, in a gesture that I recognized as an indication of uncertainty; a pause that allowed him to think of the right words.

"There are still rumors flying around the Opera about you and Garmin, Katelienne. I was thinking that if you left today without him – and without an engagement ring – it might strike the Opera populace as a little odd."

This hadn't occurred to me; I sat up and frowned. "You're saying – people will think ill of me."

"That, and they will wonder what's happened to Garmin. Tonight, at the masquerade -" he paused to grimace "- you see, Garmin invited several people to the masquerade, and one of them is the Duchess Valeant."

I nearly dropped my teacup on the floor. "Oh, no."

"My thoughts exactly."

"This is very bad. She's going to wonder what's happened to Luke. _Everyone's _going to wonder what's happened to Luke. And she's the Duchess, so she can make quite a fuss, and people will listen to her."

"Yes, as will the Count and Jeanette; and as I remember, you and Garmin are part of their group costume, aren't you? What are you going to do about that?"

I nodded, beginning to feel a little frantic. I put the teacup down on the tray and smoothed my hands over my skirts. "Somehow, we need to act normally; we need to pretend everything is fine, and that Luke is alright. We need to do something to hide the fact that he's missing because of us, but how?"

The Phantom did not look abnormally worried; he only rubbed a hand over his chin and considered the opposite wall.

"I have a few ideas."

* * *

><p>When Madame Giry arrived, the Phantom and I were standing in the bathroom, arguing.<p>

"No, I don't think _green_ makeup will cover my cut well at all -"

"– It will lessen the red of the wound, and then you can put the beige makeup on top-"

"It is _green_. I highly doubt it will work."

"If you'd just hold still, I can show you -"

"Good afternoon," Madame Giry said from behind us, as the Phantom and I began a tug-of-war over the green compact.

I let go first. Madame Giry – I silently admitted to myself – intimidated me; I thought it best not to anger her.

The Phantom dropped the makeup on the counter and folded his arms, frowning momentarily at me before answering.

"Good afternoon. We were just… hmm, _discussing_ the merits of green makeup over beige."

"I know what you were discussing," Madame Giry said, raising her thin eyebrows into dark points. "I heard you both _quite_ clearly."

She looked at me. "Katelienne, dear, as much as I hate to say this, the Phantom is correct. However, your bruise is hidden well enough for now, so you needn't reapply the powder until the masquerade. And shouldn't we be leaving to visit Cooper?"

I leaned against the bathroom counter, wondering if the Phantom would notice if I pocketed the green makeup to throw it away later. "Is it okay if we don't go? I don't see how we'd get anything out of him anyway. He's probably still in a coma."

"True, and no, we don't have to go. But what are you going to do instead?"

The Phantom and I looked at each other.

I indicated the masked man next to me. "He convinced me to move back into Luke's room for a few more days, to buy us all more time. We're running out of it rather quickly."

Madame Giry tapped her cane loudly on the floor, her lips pursed. "You do know that ruse will not work forever, correct? And what are you going to do about his guests tonight?"

I led the way back into the living room. "We have a plan. It's shaky, at best, but it may work."

"It _has _to work," the Phantom said grimly. "Or we have nothing to stand on."

Madame Giry sat down on the couch and laid her cane across her knees. "Tell me."

* * *

><p>Slowly, with occasional (sometimes helpful, sometimes sarcastic) interjections from the Phantom, I laid out the plan.<p>

I was to go to the masquerade in my Autumn costume, wearing a ring on my left hand, and apologize profusely to the Duchess for Luke's absence. I would explain that he was sick with a bad head cold, and that he hadn't wished to attend. If the Duchess protested, or demanded to see him, the Phantom would create a large and upsetting distraction.

"But where will you get the engagement ring?" Madame Giry asked, her bright eyes fixed on me. "The Phantom told me you threw Luke's ring into the lake."

"Yes, that was foolish of me," I admitted, "now that I look back on it. And there's not another one in Luke's room, either."

"However," the Phantom said from across the room, startling me, "I have one she can borrow."

His eyes met Madame Giry's, and something unspoken, yet palpable and almost electric, passed between them.

I said confusedly, wondering what this was about, "Well, thank you. I didn't know you had one. Anyway, there's still more to the plan."

Madame Giry turned back to me. "Yes. You haven't mentioned what I'm to do."

I was at a loss. We hadn't considered that Madame Giry would want a role during the masquerade. Wordlessly, I looked to the Phantom.

He quickly filled the silence. "Yes, we haven't, have we? Madame, you can choose your pick of these: guard Luke's room, help smooth down the Duchess's feathers, or assist me in my distraction."

Madame Giry considered, tapping a finger against the rim of her teacup. "I'll guard Luke's room. Where did you move him to?"

"Wait," I said, hastily, "you don't need to do that. He's sound asleep, isn't he? You said he'd be out for at least two days."

My last sentence was directed at the Phantom, who nodded in agreement, his eyes searching mine for a moment. "Yes, I did, and he will. I'm going to check on him after this conversation."

"So Madame Giry doesn't need to keep watch, then."

The woman in question put her empty teacup on the tray, and folded her hands serenely in her lap. "If you don't need me at Luke's, I'll go to the masquerade and help Katelienne with the Duchess."

"Very well," the Phantom said, shifting from foot to foot. "Any more questions?"

We shook our heads in unison.

"I'll be off, then," he said, and swung towards the door, then turned back. "Actually, Katelienne, you should come too. You should head back to Luke's room for the rest of the day."

I sighed and got to my feet. I had almost reached my suitcase when someone knocked on the door.

The Phantom immediately stopped pacing around in circles (he had been waiting for me to finish rather impatiently); Madame Giry rose quickly to her feet, and I turned to stare at the closed door.

"Katelienne? Are you in there? I checked Luke's room, to see if you and he were in there, but it was empty. I need to speak to you. Can you open up?"

It was the Count.


	39. Chapter 39: Viscaria

_Thank you all again for your enthusiastic and kind reviews! Here's the next chapter..._

* * *

><p>I pretended to have gone deaf; if no one answered him, the Count would go away. He was a gentleman, he would not pry.<p>

"Katelienne?" He knocked again. "I suppose you must be out or something. I'll just leave you a note, then."

There was the sound of paper rustling and a pen scratching, and after a few minutes, a note slid under the door and the Count's footsteps went away, down the hall.

The Phantom leaned down – he was closest – and picked up the note. "Do you want it?"

"You can read it," I said, going to my wardrobe and throwing its doors open in search of clean clothing.

"Dear Katelienne," the Phantom began, "I'm worried about you. I haven't seen you for two days. I've heard odd rumors about you and Luke, and I thought you told me he was a less than ideal choice. If I'm prying, you can ignore this note, and I will not bring it up again. But if you wish to answer me, I'll be at the masquerade, and you can speak to me then. I only hope that you are being careful. Sincerely, your friend, Francis."

He folded the note in half and placed it on my desk.

"I like this Count," Madame Giry said, approvingly. She had resumed her seat after the Count had left. "He is very courteous."

"I agree," I said. "Phantom, I'm done packing. We can leave."

Madame Giry waved at us as we went into the secret passageway: the Phantom had maintained that I take the hidden route rather than walk down the corridors in plain view. I thought it might make him happy to agree, so I did. Furthermore, I did agree with him, but for a different reason – I simply did not want to watch people whispering about me as I went through the halls.

* * *

><p>After I settled into Luke's room, the Phantom left me, promising that he would drop the ring off after he checked on Luke.<p>

When the clocks struck eight, I went out of Luke's room and down the staircase. It was time for the masquerade.

* * *

><p>Almost as soon as I entered the foyer, the Count appeared at my shoulder and drew me away into a corner.<p>

The place was packed; people were everywhere, masked, wearing brilliantly-colored gowns and costumes, carrying various props. A swordsman squeezed past the Count, nearly knocking my friend over, and I had to put a hand up to steady him.

He was wearing his Summer costume; he was very attractive, but his obvious nervousness detracted from his appeal. He tugged on the edge of his mask and fiddled with the flaps of his pockets.

"I had hoped to see you here," he said, still tugging (I resisted the urge to pull his hand away from the mask), "I wanted to speak to you about Luke."

I decided to put him at his ease.

"I understand, Francis, I do," I said. "I should have spoken with you earlier."

"You do?" He let out a great sigh of relief. "I've been worrying about you all weekend."

"Yes, I do understand, but there's nothing for you to worry about. I was completely wrong about Luke." I paused for dramatic effect. "Francis, I love him."

I turned my left hand over; the ring sparkling on my finger.

It was as though I had struck him – the Count stumbled back, his visage paling. "You're engaged?"

"Yes," I said, smiling gently at his incredulous astonishment. "You knew he was going to propose, Francis, why are you so surprised?"

"Where is he then?" he sputtered, snatching up a glass of wine from a nearby tray. "I thought you had refused him – you told me you only wanted to be his friend."

I laughed. "_You_ haven't been listening to the gossip around here, have you? I've been with Luke all weekend."

The Count flushed painfully at my double entendre. "Er, um, yes. I think I see Jeanette over there – she seems to be looking for me. Excuse me."

He put his (now-empty) glass down and squirmed his way into the crowd.

* * *

><p>I leaned against the wall, smiling sardonically. The Count had been much too eager to get away from me – he was keeping something hidden about Luke.<p>

But as far as I could tell, he didn't know about Claire. He would have been much more agitated if he had.

The babble of voices and music was loud enough to start an aching behind my eyes. I plucked a glass of champagne from a server's tray and drank a little. I would need it if I was going to get through this night.

"Would you like to dance?"

I tilted my head to one side: a parrot-headed gentleman stood in front of me, offering me his hand.

"Why, yes," I said, the champagne emboldening me. "I would love to."

The orchestra had struck up a waltz – all through the foyer, people were pairing off. The parrot man and I ventured out into the middle of the floor.

As we danced, his hand kept sliding further down my back and I had to step on his foot to make him stop.

"Ouch!" His hand shot up to my shoulder.

"Oh, I'm sorry, clumsy me," I said. "It must be that champagne I drunk earlier. What's your name?"

"The point of a masquerade is to be anonymous," he said, sourly. He had finally noticed the glittering ring on my finger.

"I suppose you could say that, but I always thought they were supposed to be fun. I also think the waltz is over, by the way."

"Good evening," he retorted, steering me to the edge of the dance floor. "I'll leave you here."

"Goodnight."

I turned and went deeper into the crowd, wincing as a peacock accidentally rapped her fan on my injured shoulder. Clutching at the scar, I slipped past her, heading for the hall. I was hungry.

* * *

><p>As I munched on an apple tart, I surreptitiously watched people drift past. A "maid" chased after a tiger, waving a feather duster after him; two knights stood awkwardly at the end of a table, clanking into each other as people reached around them for food. Three princesses swept past me, their heads held high, chattering and flicking their fans.<p>

I was just considering whether or not to drink the punch (had the Phantom spiked it again?) when a slow silence fell in the foyer, spreading gently into the hall. I picked up a goblet of punch and went to look out the double doors.

"Her Ladyship, the Duchess Marguerite Valeant," cried a little man standing at the outer doors of the Opera House, gesturing at the closed doors, and two uniformed guards pulled them open.

The Duchess entered.

She was a tall, slim woman with grey hair and thin features. She did not look impressed.

Gracefully, she lowered her chin, acknowledging the staring guests, and the answering applause rippled through the halls.

I applauded mechanically; my heart was stuttering in my chest. The doors shut with a grim boom, and the Duchess stepped into the center of the foyer at the head of her entourage, folding her hands in front of her. She was clearly waiting for Luke to show up.

I swallowed, put the goblet down on the nearest table, and crossed into the foyer, ducking past people as they hurried back into the hall. The orchestra had begun playing another waltz, and the Duchess was now standing amid a whirlwind of dancers; her brow drew into a tight frown.

"May I have this dance?" someone asked me; I shook my head no, slipping past him onto the dance floor.

I had to weave around several couples before I reached the Duchess's circle: her entourage had surrounded her to protect her from the wild dancers.

One of the guardsmen held up his hand to stop me.

I took off my mask.

"I'm Katelienne Laurent," I said to him, over the howl of the orchestra's violins. "I'm Luke Garmin's fiancée. I need to speak to the Duchess."

He hesitated, and then stepped aside, and I found myself in the center of the circle, with the Duchess staring imperiously down at me and the guardsmen on every side.

"Yes, and who are you?"

I shook my head, glancing around at the noisy crowd. "Duchess, why don't you come into the hall? It is difficult to speak in here."

Her eyebrows bunched even closer together, if that was possible, and she drew the corner of her mouth down. "I'm fine, where I am. Tell me your name."

"I'm Katelienne Laurent; I'm Luke Garmin's fiancée. He is indisposed. He cannot join us tonight."

"You're saying the manager of the Opera is your fiancé?" She did not seem convinced. "Show me your ring."

I took a deep breath and lifted my left hand towards her face. She took it in her cold fingers and turned it from side to side, watching the light flash off the diamonds, her blue eyes narrowed.

"I see." She dropped my hand.

"Now will you come with me, Duchess?"

"If I must, Mademoiselle, if I must. Panton, Houlis, remain here and watch the doors. I do not want any surprises tonight."

The two guardsmen nodded and turned away, but the other five remained, drawing closer to the Duchess, their hands on the hilts of the swords, forming a human barricade to protect her from the dancers.

The Duchess looked down at me, her lips thin. "Take me to the hall, Mademoiselle Laurent. Do not stand there like an imbecile."

It was useless to argue; I was supposed to be Luke's obedient fiancée. I smiled pleasantly, feeling the skin around my lips stretch, and led the way through the foyer.

* * *

><p>The Duchess stood in the center of the hall like a mannequin, ordering her guardsmen about (she wanted only certain types of food, prepared only a certain type of way) and I hovered next to her, feeling out of place.<p>

"So what brings you to the masquerade tonight?" I asked. "Someone in particular?"

"I had hoped to discuss the new patron of the Opera with Luke, but as he is not here, it seems I cannot."

"Did you want to meet him?" I asked, seething inwardly at her didactic tone. "He is a good friend of mine."

"The Count? No, I have no interest in him except in business matters."

I had no idea how to answer this, knowing nothing about business, so I changed the subject. "The Opera looks lovely tonight, doesn't it? I can't imagine how long it took to put up those decorations."

I was referring to the long gold streamers falling from the ceiling, but the Duchess pretended not to understand this and frowned at the costumed people. "I hope the Opera is not always filled with this rabble."

It was true that I did not hold much love for drunkards and fools, which were what the crowds around the hall primarily consisted of, but I did care for the reputation of the Opera House, however aloof its people were to me.

"Actually, the Opera workers are always here," I said, calmly. "They're enjoying themselves; this is one of their few nights off."

The Duchess peered down at me disbelievingly. "Are you actually disagreeing with me, Mademoiselle Laurent?"

"No, of course not," I said. "Would you like to try some punch?"

I did not actually expect her to do so, but she took the goblet out of my hands and drank.

I turned my attention back to the hall – I was looking for Madame Giry, as there had been no sign of her yet.

My eyes flitted through the crowd, passing over an Italian nobleman, a tall marigold, another knight, a chess piece, a ballerina… If Madame Giry was going to come, I doubted she would be in costume. She didn't seem like the type to pretend anything.

"Usually, people listen when I am talking, Mademoiselle."

I looked up at the Duchess, pasting a smile on my face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't hear you. What did you say?"

She put the goblet down on the table with a clink of glass. "I was saying, if Luke had been here, he would have asked me to dance. But I can hardly ask _you_. What did you say he was sick with? It has slipped my mind in all this noise."

"A terrible head cold," I lied. "He asked specifically that you not go visit him, Duchess, so I -"

"- And why would I want to do _that_? Health is precious to me, as it should have been to Luke. I wouldn't be surprised if you gave it to him."

Nettled, I held my tongue and stared fixedly at the punch bowl. I would keep my temper if it killed me.

"May I have this dance?"

I glanced up, and a tall archer stared back at me, his bow slung jauntily across his back, a quiver peeking out from behind his shoulder.

"Me?"

The Duchess sniffed loudly. "Well, he's not asking _me_, so go. I no longer require your services."

I quickly considered my options: the Duchess displayed no burning intention to visit Luke, I had finally caught sight of Madame Giry behind the pies, and perhaps dancing would cause me to retain a firm grip on my temper…

"I'll go," I said.


	40. Chapter 40: China Aster

_And yet another chapter... Yay!_

_Thank you for the sweet reviews, my readers!_

* * *

><p>The archer offered me his arm and we went into the foyer.<p>

Yet another waltz had begun – I sighed and stepped onto the dance floor, hoping the archer was not another piece of lecherous scum. I eyed him from behind my mask: he looked a decent sort of fellow – at least he wasn't dressed as a giant bird – but his expression was hidden completely behind his full-face black mask.

We danced for a full minute before I could get any words in; the archer's feet were very quick. I finally tripped him, and he had to slow down to watch my steps, which gave me an excellent opening to speak.

"You dolt," I said breathlessly, "how could you just march up to the Duchess and ask me for a dance?"

"When did you figure out it was me?" the Phantom asked, reverting back to his regular voice. "I thought I did very well, thank _you_."

"When you started spinning around in rapid circles," I said, digging my fingers into his shoulder (he was beginning to speed up again) in hopes that he would take a hint. "Will you please slow down? No one else is dancing this fast."

"But I'm not out of beat, or step, or breath," the Phantom replied, twirling me around effortlessly. "The Duchess is rather persnickety, isn't she, the old dear? I don't know how you're going to get through this night."

I kicked him in the shin before he could whirl me around again, hiding the movement with a swish of my skirts in case one of the Duchess's ever-present guards was watching, and nodded, trying to catch my breath to speak.

"Yes, she's awful. She kept making little comments about my manners. And I want to know why did it took Madame Giry so long to get here; I was stranded for at least twenty minutes."

"Oh, we had a slight problem with the prisoner," the Phantom murmured, his tone studiously neutral. "She helped me handle it."

We had settled down into a two-step, swaying gently from side to side, and I was finally able to breathe normally.

"What do you mean, a problem?"

"A few of the ballet girls got it into their heads that they wanted to explore, so they wandered up into the back part of the Opera dangerously close to our guest's room. Madame Giry intercepted them in time, luckily."

"I hope you didn't frighten them," I said, "seeing as you like to do so to people."

The orchestra had started a new piece. The Phantom continued our two-step pattern, ignoring the music.

"I don't terrorize little ballet girls, only grown murderers." He looked over the top of my head. "The Duchess is looking for you."

"Oh, no," I said desperately, "keep dancing, I don't want to have to talk to her for the entire rest of the night!"

The Phantom drew his hand away from my waist and dropped his other hand from my shoulder. "I think you should go, Katelienne, there seems to be a small disturbance. Have a nice time!"

And with that, he slipped through the dancers and was gone.

I stared after him, surprised that he had just left me standing here, and a gruff voice spoke in my ear.

"Mademoiselle, the Duchess is asking for you. Please follow me."

* * *

><p>The guardsman led me out of the foyer, into the hall, and past the long tables stacked with food, his head bobbing over the people around us. I pushed past a group of jesters and rubbed my aching shoulder.<p>

"Where are we going?"

He didn't answer, only pushed open a door at the end of the hall and held it open, waiting for me to enter.

"Monsieur, until you explain what is going on, I am not going to go down that corridor." I was not about to march into a strange hallway with an equally strange and armed man at my back.

There were brisk footsteps, and Madame Giry appeared at the doorway, clearly displeased.

"Oh, Katelienne, there you are. The Duchess fancies she's been poisoned, and she's accusing you for some _idiotic_ reason. She says you gave her a goblet of punch."

I gaped at her.

The guardsman cleared his throat impatiently. "Mademoiselle, _now_ will you enter the room?"

I went inside.

Madame Giry followed after me, and the guardsman brought up the rear, one hand on his sword hilt, pulling the door shut behind him.

* * *

><p>The Duchess was reclining on a couch, a wet cloth on her forehead, one hand splayed above her head, and her feet propped up on a pillow. Her guardsmen had taken up posts along the walls.<p>

I came to a halt in the center of the floor.

"You asked for me?"

The Duchess opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, her voice weak. "Honard, please tell the young lady what she has done to me."

Honard, a thin, dark-haired guard with startling coppery eyes, stepped forward and folded his hands behind his back. "Mademoiselle, you gave the Duchess her drink."

"Yes, but I -"

"You were the only one who handled the goblet."

"Well, no, the servers-"

"Your actions have caused Her Ladyship great distress."

The Duchess groaned pitifully from the couch.

"Now, really," Madame Giry said indignantly, "Katelienne did not poison the Duchess. How ludicrous these accusations are! You look perfectly healthy, your Ladyship, only half-starved. Perhaps if you ate more you wouldn't collapse in the middle of the hall."

The Duchess flicked a threatening eye towards her and thinned her lips in preparation to speak, but I got there first.

"Your Ladyship," I said, adopting a diplomatic tone, "I am very sorry that the punch did not agree with you. I give you my word, however, that I, nor anyone else at the Opera, poisoned it. If you need one, I will summon a doctor for you."

Madame Giry, I, and the five guards all waited for the Duchess to speak. The clocks outside struck ten.

At long last, the Duchess removed the cloth from her head and sat up slowly. One of the guards hurried forward and took the cloth from her, bowed, and backed away.

She blinked dazedly, swept a hand down her skirts, and said, "Oddly enough, I feel much better."

She smiled charmingly at me. "You can go."

* * *

><p>Madame Giry and I departed speedily. I sighed in relief as we emerged into the bustling, merry crowd.<p>

"That old bat," Madame Giry snorted, crimping her lips at the sides. "She's so pompous and arrogant and snotty I wish you _had_ poisoned her."

I looked around, but no one seemed to have heard. It was difficult not to laugh. "Madame Giry, I'm surprised at you! And here I thought you never lost your temper."

"Wipe that smile off your face, Katelienne. I have never lost my temper and I never intend to. I'm off to find the Phantom. The last time I saw him he was standing next to the punch bowl, the wretch!"

I watched her hurry away, evading mad masqueraders, and picked up my skirts. I wanted a drink of water; my throat was as dry as a desert after the Duchess's impromptu meeting.

Unfortunately, as I crossed the hall, a gentleman carrying a lute and wearing a troubadour outfit blocked my path. He bowed.

"May I have this dance?"

"Not if you're going to recite poetry," I said, attempting to edge around him. "I'm looking for something to drink."

"The punch is delicious," he replied, following me. "I recommend it."

"Of course you do," I said, under my breath. "Look, Monsieur, do you know where any water is in here?"

He stared up at the ceiling in thought, which forced me to stop and listen to him, and raised a large finger. "Ah, yes, I do. Follow me, Mademoiselle. And that is a very lovely ring. Did someone recently propose?"

"Yes, the manager here, actually. Luke Garmin." I smiled. "We are very happy."

It was amazing that these horribly false words did not stick in my throat and choke me.

"Of course, of course," he said, threading his way through the crowds, something he had a little trouble doing – he was rather rotund. "Do tell me about it; I love weddings. I can't imagine anyone who doesn't."

I followed along behind him, chattering about wedding plans, spinning it all out of thin air and praying that he would find the water soon.

As we reached the end of the hall (not the side with the Duchess) the man stopped and asked a server for help. The server nodded and scurried away.

"The water was just here," the gentleman said, waving his hand at a small round table. "I sat here for nearly three hours, and it was here the whole time. I cannot understand where it went."

"What, no dancing?" I asked teasingly. "Surely someone asked you."

"I believe two flowers and one princess attempted to, but I dissuaded them in favor of food. Besides, I am an older man – one dance will be enough for me tonight."

I smiled and shrugged. "I am not up to dancing at the moment, Monsieur – what did you say your name was?"

"I did not. Monsieur Dumont, at your service." He bowed again, and the server came back with a tray of water glasses. "Here you go, Mademoiselle. Your name?"

I took the water from him and nodded gratefully at the server. "Katelienne Laurent. You are not a regular at the Opera, are you? I do not recognize you."

"No," he said, settling himself into a chair and groaning in relief, "I am not. I fancy myself immune to the musical attractions."

I sat down next to him, intrigued. "You have no interest in music? Why not? Music is so beautiful; such an integral part of life."

"Your life, perhaps, but not mine. Opera has never appealed to me. My passion is people – there are so many in this world, each one unique, each one talented. Tell me, Mademoiselle, what is your passion?"

"I write," I said, sipping my water. "I'm currently working on a novel about the Opera Ghost. I don't suppose you've heard of him."

"No, I have, actually. He's quite famous in Parisian gossip. I hear he was rather disruptive the last two performances, wasn't he?"

I pretended melancholy. "Yes, yes, he was. It was a rather bad weekend; I'm afraid Luke could not handle all the pressure."

"Yes, where is your fiancé? Surely he is not ill?"

"No, he is. A bad head cold. I think it was brought on by all the terrible mishaps that have been happening lately. I do not like to talk about it, Monsieur; perhaps we can turn to lighter things."

I had caught sight of a familiar back: a quiver and a bow against brown clothing, and I was certain the Phantom could hear our conversation. I thought it best not to swell his head any further – talk of his "disruptiveness" would only make him more pompous.

* * *

><p>The gentleman next to me talked for a least another hour about various boring topics: the weather, his new hat, my dress, the people in the hall, the state of the pastries, the deliciousness of the punch…<p>

I had resigned myself to utter boredom, and was beginning to feel sleepy, when the archer detached himself from a group of knights and noblewomen and headed in my direction.

"May I have this dance, Mademoiselle?"

I got to my feet, smiling down at Monsieur Dumont. "I think it's time for some exercise, Monsieur Dumont. I hope to see you later this evening."

Monsieur Dumont heaved himself out of the chair and offered me his hand. "It's been a pleasure, Mademoiselle Laurent. And is this man a friend of yours? A friend of Luke's, perhaps?"

The Phantom bowed to him, and answered for me. "No, I'm afraid I know neither Luke – whoever he may be – nor this fine lady – I am simply a lonely dance partner seeking a waltz."

"Surely you know this lady is engaged," Monsieur Dumont said, his face mottling. I was surprised, and wondered what the problem was.

I found it out soon enough. "Her fiancé is ill tonight; otherwise he'd be here dancing with her."

"Luke doesn't care who I dance with," I said, affronted by his very personal interest in my choice of dance partners. "I'll say goodnight, Monsieur; I wish you a pleasant rest of the evening."

Monsieur Dumont bowed to me again, inclined his head stiffly to the Phantom, and opened his mouth as if he intended to say something else.

We hurried away.

* * *

><p>"What a overbearing nuisance," the Phantom scoffed in my ear as we swirled around the dance floor. "I can't believe you talked to him for so long."<p>

"Well," I said, tightening my grip on his shoulder (we were spinning rather quickly), "he seemed nice at the beginning. I suppose he must be one of those people who think they must run everyone else's lives. And while we're on the subject of life, did you do something to the Duchess's punch?"

"Of course not."

I raised my eyes to his.

"Katelienne, I didn't. Truly." He seemed to be telling the truth, but of course it was difficult to tell with his mask on.

"That's a first," I said, deciding not to pursue it. "And stop stepping on my feet; I know you're doing it on purpose."

"You're doing the wrong steps," he complained. "At least attempt to dance the waltz."

"I hate waltzes, and I only agreed to dance with you to get away from that man. Do you know who he is? I've never seen him here before, and I thought he had come with a date, but he seems to be alone."

"No idea," the Phantom said, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "I think we should do a little less talking and a little more dancing, don't you?"

I wasn't given the chance to respond because he pulled me into a spin; and after that, everything passed in a whirl of movement and color and music.


	41. Chapter 41: Yellow Rose

It was nearing twelve when the Duchess swept out of the hall and into the foyer, trailing guards behind her like a tail.

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle Laurent," she said as she passed me, snapping her fingers to make one of her guards open the doors. "I wish you happiness with your Luke."

"Thank you," I said, pulling the Phantom to a halt, as I stopped dancing to answer her. "I wish you… ah… Goodnight."

Luckily, my pathetic response was enough – the Duchess stepped through the doors and into the night, her guards vanishing after her.

I turned back to the Phantom. "I've had enough dancing, and besides, that woman across the room has been staring at you for nearly fifteen minutes. Go ask her if she wants to dance."

"I'd rather not," he muttered, and followed me off the dance floor. "She looks rabid. And where are you going?"

"Upstairs," I said. "I've done my duty; I want to check on Luke."

"Mademoiselle Katelienne?"

I turned. It was Count Le Nansen, and his face was dark.

"I'd like to speak with you," the Count said. "Privately."

* * *

><p>I followed him into Luke's office, and he shut the door.<p>

"You can sit down, if you want."

"Francis," I said, folding my arms protectively, "what is this about? You're scaring me."

"It's about Luke," he said, "and your engagement. Katelienne, tell me this: do you love him? Do you truly love him?"

It was very hard to gape at him, but I did, and added for effect, "How could you ask me that? I do! I love him, Francis. I don't know why you are interrogating me like this."

The Count took a deep breath, so deep that I thought he would burst his buttons, and closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them, he fixed them on my face. "Katelienne, I am _very _good at reading people, and I know that when you say you love him, you're actually saying you hate him."

It was as though he had read my mind. I caught my breath.

"How could you – how could you say that? Francis, I've agreed to _marry _him. I want to be his wife. What more can I do? Must I march into the middle of the foyer and scream it out for everyone to hear? I can, if you want; heaven knows I do."

"Don't lie to me, Katelienne. Why are you marrying him? He's no good; you know that; you even told me yourself. Don't marry him. Give him back his ring and go home."

"I won't," I said. "I'm not leaving the Opera. I love him, and nothing you say can change that."

The Count narrowed his eyes. "You're lying."

I threw my hands in the air. "We could stand here and argue all night long, Count, but you will still be wrong."

He glowered at me. "Katelienne, listen to yourself. The last time I talked to you – that day in the marketplace – you insisted that you were not interested in Luke. And I've dug up something about him, something terrible. Please break off your engagement; I beg you, please."

This was getting interesting. I twisted the ring on my finger until it hurt; I had to phrase my next words right. "What do you mean, something terrible? Luke would never do something… terrible."

"Katelienne," the Count said, drawing closer, "I found something out about him."

I stared at him. "What do you mean?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of cheesecloth. I took a step back as he unwrapped it.

_John Monett._

"Katelienne, Luke's real name is John Monett. He's been married before, to a woman named Claire Dubois. She died two years ago, under mysterious circumstances, and John Monett moved here and changed his name."

"That can't be right," I said, taking the cheesecloth from him. "That's insane. Luke would never do that. I don't know what game you're playing, Count, but leave me out of it!"

The Count's eyes were sad. "Katelienne, I thought you were sensible… Please, you have to believe me. I found the old newspaper records; I know it's him."

"Luke married before?" I scoffed. "You're claiming that he changed his name and moved here? Why would he do that?"

"He might have killed his wife, Katelienne. The whole affair seems fishy. All I'm asking you to do is break the engagement; or at least postpone it until you're sure about him. Please listen to me. Remember that I'm your friend; I'd never lie to you."

"But you're saying Luke will." I crumpled the cheesecloth in my hand and dropped it onto the floor. "Goodnight, Count."

"Katelienne, wait!"

I was past him; I opened the door and glanced back. "I don't want to speak to you again. I bid you goodnight."

The Count stood motionless in the office, the cheesecloth lying in a ball at his feet, his arms hanging limply by his sides.

I slammed the door on his dear, truthful face.

* * *

><p>The masquerade was winding down; it was almost two in the morning, but I could hear the revelers' voices fading away as they went upstairs to their beds.<p>

The Phantom was standing in the center of the deserted, empty foyer, looking down at the tiled floor, his hands behind his back.

I heard muffled cries of "Goodnight!" from above, the crashes of slamming doors, then silence.

I crossed the dance floor towards him, my shoes noiseless on the tile, and pulled the sweaty mask off my face.

"What did the Count want?" the Phantom asked.

He hadn't turned; he hadn't seen me yet, but he somehow had known I was there. I stepped into place in front of him.

"He wants me to break off the engagement. He's found out about John Monett... I don't know what to do."

The Phantom considered me. "Let him tell the police."

"Luke's drugged upstairs," I said. "We can't let him do that."

"Then we should wake him up. We're going nowhere with this plan."

A few masqueraders came into the foyer, laughing and holding glasses of liquor, and crossed the dance floor to the doors across the room.

We waited until they had left before we spoke again.

"You said the sedative caused one to forget the hours before. But it didn't work on me, nor Luke."

The Phantom shook his head. "No, it did work on Luke – he was already interested in killing you, remember? But you're right; the dose he gave you was too small. I gave him much more than he gave you. He won't remember anything of the last forty-eight hours."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing at all."

We stood there for a moment, both of us lost in our thoughts.

The clocks struck two outside.

"We have to tell the police," I said, at last. "I'll go down to the station tomorrow morning. I'll tell them everything; leaving you out, of course. I'll tell them my real name, the events that led up to my coming to the Opera. I'll leave out… I'll leave out everything we did wrong."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" I stiffened, shaking my head. "I know we need to come up with some story that explains away Luke's amnesia; perhaps I'll say he drank himself into stupidity. But I must go down to the station. I can't do this anymore; I've lost track of all my lies."

"Katelienne, no one will believe you. You have no proof."

"I have _my _proof! I have my story – I know what happened! I heard both Cooper's and Luke's confessions!"

"You need another witness."

We looked at each other.

"You're my other witness," I said.

"I know."

"You're a masked ghost that's wanted for murder. You can't go to the station with me."

He dragged a hand through his hair; stared around the foyer, looked back at me.

"This is hopeless."

Someone came through the doors at the side of the foyer; we fell silent.

"Mademoiselle Laurent?"

I turned to look at the arrival. It was Monsieur Dumont.

"It's a little late, don't you think?" I asked. "What are you still doing here?"

"Looking for you," he said, bowing. "I've brought some friends with me; hope you don't mind."

Several policemen came through the doors, their faces implacable, and I took a step back.

* * *

><p>The Phantom had vanished from his place besides me; I wondered briefly why he had left, but now I had three policemen to deal with.<p>

I folded my hands in front of me. If I was going to jail, I was going respectably.

"What is all this about?"

Monsieur Dumont swept off his mask, revealing a large gray mustache, a bulbous nose, and dark eyes.

"I am Inspector Bulstrode, Mademoiselle Laurent. I've been working undercover at the Opera for nearly a week."

I managed to keep my composure, but barely. "And what have you discovered?"

The policemen behind him had fanned out to block the exits; I swallowed and fought the urge to glance around in a panic, praying that the Phantom was long gone from here.

"Nothing, except that you are an extraordinary young lady, Mademoiselle Laurent. And I doubt that is your true name. Is it true that you have single-handedly captured John Monett?"

I stalled; it would be dangerous to admit anything now. "Where did you hear that ludicrous information? And who is John Monett? I have no idea what you are talking about, none at all. I must get back to my fiancé, he is probably wondering where I am."

"Brava, Mademoiselle," the Inspector said, bowing again. "I am loath to admit to you the name of my little bird; you may rest assured, however, that you are not about to be dragged off to jail."

"I can't imagine why I would be," I retorted, "seeing as I have done nothing wrong. Pray explain what you are talking about."

The Inspector smiled and twirled his mustache in a ridiculous fashion.

"Mademoiselle Laurent, let me explain. Luke, formerly known as John Monett, was your deceased sister's husband. You came to the Opera House under the pretense that you were writing a novel about the Opera Ghost; your real name is Irene Dubois, and somehow you have finagled Luke into proposing to you. I don't know what you've done with him; he's probably locked up somewhere in the Opera."

"You have no proof," I said, "of your stupid, implausible conclusions; you need a witness in order to destroy my good name."

The Inspector stepped forward; his little stout feet rapping on the tiles, and said, "My informant is John Cooper. He recently woke from his coma and asked for the police. I answered his call; he told me everything. The rest, I guessed. Mademoiselle Laurent, you have done extremely well. Let me handle the remainder."

I stood in the center of the foyer, the tatters of my past trailing around me, cut free by the Inspector's words. I said nothing.

"Give me Luke," he said. "Give me Luke and everything will go away."

"What do you plan to do?" My voice was nearly inaudible.

"I will take him to jail. Cooper has written a confession of his deeds; he has named Luke as Claire Dubois's murderer; he has disclosed that he was Luke's accomplice."

He drew a thick sheaf of papers out of his vest and held it up, and I glimpsed Cooper's signature at the bottom of the first page.

* * *

><p>I brought him to Luke.<p>

I had gone to visit the murderer earlier; I had followed the Phantom down the corridors as he went to Luke's room; hid in a nearby closet while he unlocked the door.

When he had left to summon Madame Giry, to ask her to help him with the wild ballet girls, I had slipped into Luke's room and stood looking down at the unconscious man.

"I would kill you," I said, "I would kill you. The only thing that holds me back is Claire."

Luke said nothing in return, only snored.

"My name is Irene Dubois, and I was the one who found you. Claire is my sister, and I loved her, and you killed her. I know the truth about you, but you will never know the truth about me."

I figured I had fulfilled my purpose, so I left, hurrying through the corridors before the Phantom returned.

* * *

><p>And now I stood in the tiny room, staring down once again at the supine man, wishing for some sort of relief, some sort of retribution, some sort of triumph, but all I felt was numbness.<p>

The Inspector directed his men to lift Luke to his feet, gag him, and bring him out of the Opera the back way.

"Let no one see you," he said, clapping his hands together. "Go now."

They left with their prisoner, his feet dragging on the floor, and I turned to the Inspector.

"What happens now?"

The Inspector surveyed me with businesslike eyes. "You go to bed. Rest for a few days. By that time, all this will have blown over."

"Who are you going to tell about my part in this?"

"No one," the Inspector said. "I will tell no one; I have told no one, and neither will my men do so. You are safe, Mademoiselle Dubois. Goodnight."


	42. Chapter 42: Bird's foot Trefoil

I stood in front of Claire's grave, watching the autumn leaves fall down around the white stone and drop onto the cold brown ground.

A new bouquet of lilies lay at the foot of the tombstone, white against white, icy against the warm red and gold of the leaves.

Lilies had always been her favorite flower; she had told me once that she wanted them at her wedding.

"Oh, Claire," I said quietly. "I wish I had been able to go to your wedding."

Her elopement had struck me hard; I had never thought she would have gone off and left me like that, never thought that we would have been separated so soon.

But now it was later; now her elopement was in the past, and the memories were all I had left, so my pictures of Claire were only the good ones, the kind ones, the brave ones. Not the sad, or the ill, or the angry. I did not want to remember the bad, only the good.

Today I had left the Opera without speaking to the Phantom or to Madame Giry, without telling them what I planned to do.

I needed to do the rest of this on my own, just as I had started it.

I smiled down at the colorful array of leaves around Claire's grave, blew her a kiss, and strode away through the graveyard.

* * *

><p>The hospital was cold and sanitized-smelling; I shivered as I stood in the long line, waiting for my turn.<p>

There was a little old lady in line of front of me, her old wrinkled hands clutching the handles of her bag, murmuring to herself under her breath. I smiled sadly at the back of her gray head, wondering where her children were. Didn't anyone care enough to wait at the hospital with her?

The line moved slowly onward; people left, gathering up their children, helping their spouses outside, steering elderly people out the door, their faces drawn with exhaustion.

I was very grateful I had no one I cared about in the hospital.

When I reached the counter, the young clerk looked up with a smile. "And who are you here for?"

"John Cooper," I said.

"What room?"

"I don't know, actually," I said, wishing that I did. "He was in a coma for a few days; does that help?"

"Yes, it does. Let me see." She turned a few pages in a large book, humming under her breath. I smiled; this reminded me of the Phantom. He could never do anything without some sort of music in the background.

"All right, I've found him. He was in room 206, but it seems that he's departed."

I stared at her. "He's left?"

"Yes, it says here his cousin came and picked him up this morning. He didn't leave an address."

"Who came and got him?"

The clerk closed her eyes in thought. "Micah would know; let me ask him."

* * *

><p>Micah, a male doctor with a cheery smile, came down the hall to meet me. "You must be the lady asking about Cooper."<p>

"Yes, I am," I said. "Can you tell me who came and got him this morning?"

"Let's see, let's see." He stared off to the side in thought. "Ah, yes. It was a stout man with a mustache, an older fellow. He said his name was Monsieur Dumont."

"Thank you," I said, and hurried away down the hall.

I had to find Luke.

* * *

><p>The jail was dark and oppressive between the other buildings; its grey front imposing and terrible. It was hard not to simply turn around and leave, but I steeled myself and went on.<p>

I stepped up to the window and spoke to the clerk. "I'm looking for a John Monett."

The clerk, a pale man with a nervous twitch in his eye, adjusted his spectacles. "The accused's crime?"

"Murder."

"When was he brought in?"

"Yesterday."

He turned the pages of his book, ran his finger down the lines.

"I'm sorry, there's no John Monett here."

I frowned and then realized my mistake. "Oh, I'm sorry. I meant Luke Garmin."

The clerk raised his eyebrows but flipped a few pages back, and perused the new page. He frowned and shook his head.

"There's no Luke Garmin here either. Are you sure you've come to the right prison?"

"This is the only prison in Paris," I snapped. "Can I see the book?"

The clerk sighed and pushed the book around to face me. "See?"

_John Hancouver._

_Michael Harot._

_Anthony Huntsman._

_Janice Garris._

_Matthew Gary._

_Stuart Grim._

There were no other names on the page. I closed the book and handed it back to him. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>When the Phantom found me, I was on the roof, staring out at the dull grey horizon.<p>

"Where have you been all day?"

"Visiting the hospital and the prison," I said, dully. "I wanted to check on Cooper. I suppose I wanted to ask him why he told the Inspector everything."

"Katelienne, what's wrong?"

My lips were numb with the cold.

"The Inspector lied to me, Phantom. He's gone; he's taken Cooper and Luke with him. Whoever those people were with him last night, they weren't real policemen. And he wasn't an Inspector."

"What are you saying? Are you saying he's…"

I turned to face him. "He must… I don't know; Cooper must have bribed him or something. I don't know why I ever believed him… I am such a fool."

"The Inspector..." He stared at me. "Do you remember that Cooper told us he bribed an inspector to keep him from prosecuting Luke? Do you think he's the same man?"

"I don't know, and truthfully, I don't really care. We have no leads. I have no way of finding them; I asked all the carriage drivers I could find if they had seen a large fat man and the manager of the Opera and a sickly man that day; if they had driven them out of the city, but no one knew anything. No one knows _anything_."

I turned to face the horizon again, my fingers closing around the cold railing. "But I will find him again. I will find him again if it kills me."

"What for?"

The question was quiet; I could have ignored it, but something inside me snapped. "I _have _to find him, you know that! He killed my sister!"

"Yes, and?"

I spun to look at him, my fingers tightening on the railing behind me. "You don't know what you're asking, Phantom. You know why I have to find him; I don't know what you're getting at."

"You cannot bring him to justice. You have absolutely nothing to prove your case with, and now he has powerful friends to protect him. There's nothing you can do."

His calm tone was infuriating; I nearly shook with anger.

"No, of course there is! There is always something I can do! I will find him! I _will_ bring him back; he will _suffer_ for what he did to Claire."

"Katelienne, you will not find peace in this. Your thirst for revenge will destroy you. You cannot live like this."

"I'm not doing this for revenge! I'm doing this for _Claire!"_

His green eyes were gentle. "That's a lie."

* * *

><p>We stood on the rooftop, staring at each other, the wind picking up around us, whipping at my hair and turning the Phantom's shirt into a long rippling mass of white.<p>

I was furious; no, I was beyond fury, beyond rage. How dare he insinuate I was out for revenge? I was out for _justice; _Luke deserved prison; he deserved execution; he deserved death, but I was not planning to murder him! Only to lock him up until he faced his sentence.

"How far will you go to find him? How many people will you leave behind?"

"I have left _no one _behind," I spat at him. "Only my parents, and they do not care."

"And when you leave the Opera to find him again?"

* * *

><p>The words hung there in the air, hovering, bright with their knowledge.<p>

"I… I…" My answer was stuck somewhere in my throat. Who would I leave behind the second time?

"Would you leave me?"

* * *

><p>Would I? Would I leave him?<p>

_Could _I leave him? After everything we had done together? After those long nights, and those long days, and the performances, and the masquerade, and the dances with him?

After the way he looked at me, and the soft expression in his eyes, and the yearning in his face?

After the way he had held me when I cried? After the breakfasts I had shared with him, and the long hours we had spent in arguments? After he had caught me in his arms on the rooftop after Cooper's terrible confession?

After he had asked me to stay?

* * *

><p>"I…" I cleared my throat. "But couldn't you come with me?"<p>

He looked down at me. "No."

I stared up at him, twisting my hands together. "Only for a little while?"

"I remember you promised me a book."

This was utterly ludicrous. "_You_ promised me you would help capture Luke."

* * *

><p>It had begun to rain. The drops fell on my upturned face and dripped off the ends of the Phantom's dark hair; spattering onto the cobblestones, coloring them black.<p>

"I cannot do this," I said. "Either you come with me or I leave by myself."

"I tell you, it will _destroy _you, Katelienne!"

His eyes flashed and sparked, fiery in their intensity; he spun around away from me, clenching his hands at his sides.

I stood there, at a loss, wrapping my arms around myself. My eyes were stinging with tears, but from what, I was unsure.

* * *

><p>"I must go after him; I can't do anything else."<p>

"Why?" His voice was muffled in the sound of the rain. "Why does it matter so much to you? How will it help you with your grief?"

"I don't _know_! All I know is that I can't let him simply vanish! He has to pay for what he did!"

"Did you ever consider that it might be out of your hands? That you are not supposed to be the one to make him suffer? Have you ever thought that perhaps he wronged someone else?"

It was my turn to spin away from him; to stare across the rooftops in agony; to fight inwardly with myself.

* * *

><p>The rain continued to fall, the little cold droplets piercing me as they sank into my dress.<p>

"I cannot do anything else," I whispered. "I don't know how to do anything else anymore."

* * *

><p>We parted ways very soon after that; the Phantom slipping between the statues to the staircase and vanishing inside.<p>

I stood in the rain, letting it pound around me on the stones, letting it freeze me with its arrows of icy water. I did not want to feel anymore; I did not want the overwhelming emotions in my gut to burn with their hot fire. I wanted to be ice; I wanted to be stone.

* * *

><p>The night was a cold one. I sat in my chair, my chin propped on my hands, gazing at the lines of text I had written for my novel. The fire crackled behind me, the flames shooting out sparks.<p>

No one knocked on my door; no one said my name; no one came to visit. The Count did not come to my room, and neither did Madame Giry.

I supposed she was probably sleeping, like I should be, but I could not force myself to lie there in bed, staring up at the ceiling, alone with my thoughts.

I began to make a list:

_1. Pack._

_2. Clean up room._

_3. Say goodb_

But I could not finish it. I crumpled up the paper and threw it against the wall, watching it fall to the floor.

When tomorrow morning came, I would have to leave or risk losing any trace of Luke's trail. I would have to go to the docks and question the sailors. I would have to go to the hospital and question anyone that had seen Luke and his allies. I would have to leave the Opera for good, or all of this would have been for naught. I would have to get out of here before someone began to suspect me; I was Luke's supposed fiancee; I would be suspiciously out of place.

But I stared at the mass of papers on my desk; I gazed down at the unfinished novel.

If I was going to leave the Phantom, the least I could do was finish his book.

* * *

><p>I wrote late into the night.<p> 


	43. Chapter 43: Red Tulip

_Thank you again for the reviews! I know you're worried... I'm sorry!_

_Just keep reading! I promise it's worth it!  
><em>

* * *

><p>When the morning came, it brought with it a terrible feeling of regret.<p>

I sat up in bed, refusing to look at the completed novel on my desk. I did not want to do this; why had I ever told myself I had to leave?

But it had to be done. I had to find Luke.

But why?

Wasn't the Phantom more important?

Hadn't I built a life for myself here?

I could see the pained look on Madame Giry's dear, lined face when I told her I was leaving; could hear the Count's last words echoing in my head.

Could I leave them all and not look back?

"_It will __**destroy **__you…"_

It already was.

* * *

><p>I went to Madame Giry's room first, knocked on her door.<p>

She opened it almost immediately. "Katelienne. Please come in."

Her tone did not bode well, but I went inside anyway.

"Take a seat," she said. "I take it you've come to tell me you're leaving."

* * *

><p>The Count was second; I stood in front of his door and took a deep, trembling breath, preparing myself.<p>

"Come in," he said, almost as soon as I had knocked.

I opened the door and sat down in the chair he pointed to. He looked weary, and worried, but his face brightened a little when he looked down at my hand.

"You're not wearing your ring."

"No, I'm not," I agreed. "Francis, I have a lot to tell you. I hope you don't have anything to do this morning."

* * *

><p>I went to the Phantom's room last, finding my way to his house with no little difficulty, and no small measure of endurance, or strength.<p>

When I reached the dock, I untied the gondola and rowed to the other side, watching the dark water slip away behind me.

I reached the dock, slipped out of the gondola and dropped into the water. I waded towards the shore.

It was deserted, save the looming piles of furniture and papers and instruments. The organ sat silently behind the stacks of belongings, and the door in the back of the wall was shut.

I waited on the shore until he came.

* * *

><p>"I thought you were leaving," he said, standing several feet away from me, his eyes on the lake.<p>

"I finished your book," I said, and held up the heavy sheaf of papers.

There was a long silence, during which the tiny waves lapped at the stone shore, and I heard the Phantom take a slow breath and let it out again.

He lifted his head, looked directly at me. "So you are leaving."

His eyes were devoid of hope, as dead as the autumn leaves that had fallen around Claire's grave.

"Guess again," I said, and I threw the book into the lake.

* * *

><p>We met in the middle of the shore – both of us had turned to the other at the same moment – and my chest was thick with the wings of hope, the fluttering sounds beating strong in my ears, and I could hardly breathe.<p>

He bent his head and kissed me.

The hope in my chest thickened into something deeper, something like love; I did not let go of him, I did not step back.

* * *

><p>"So you can stay," he said, a few hours later.<p>

I was sitting at the dining room table, fiddling with my spoon and smiling like a fool. "Yes. I told the Count everything; he's promised to take over for Luke until we find a replacement. I'm officially the writer-in-residence now."

"But you threw your book into the lake," he said, handing me a cup of tea. "How can you be the writer if you have no writing?"

"Oh, I'll rewrite it," I said. "I still have all the interviews. At the moment, though, it seemed like the right thing to do."

The Phantom sat down across from me. "It was."

He hadn't asked me the question, the question I knew was on his mind and the one he wanted to ask most. I leaned forward and asked it for him.

"You want to know why I changed my mind about Luke."

"And here I thought you already answered that question," he said, his tone wry. "I mean, you were the one that kissed me."

"It was the other way around, dolt," I said. "And yes, I suppose I did answer it. In a roundabout sort of way."

He laughed. "I love the way you twist everything around in order to argue with me."

"I love you too," I said, and I leaned forward the rest of the way and kissed him.

* * *

><p>That afternoon, I stood in front of Claire's grave. The Phantom hadn't come with me, according to my wishes – I had told him this was something I had to do alone.<p>

"And so," I told her, "we're in love. Isn't that amazing? Me – and him? I would never have thought it would turn out this way."

I bent down and picked up the bouquet of lilies. "I guess I will have to use these now, instead of you."

"Well, isn't this so touching," drawled a horribly familiar voice from behind me. "I suppose that freak and you are going to get married."

I turned, clutching the flowers to my chest, and stared into Luke Garmin's pale face.

He looked much better than he had the last time I saw him – his cheeks had regained some pink, and his blue eyes were brighter than ever. He smiled at me, and the movement made my heart lurch in actual pain.

Behind him stood the Inspector, Cooper, and five other men, their expressions varying from cool interest to lechery.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, trying to remember which pocket I had put my knife in, though there was no way I could defend myself against seven men.

"We're taking you with us," the Inspector said, his pudgy face crumpling in on itself as he smiled at me. "It would not be well if we left you here to tell everyone about us."

"I already have," I said, inching towards the gravestone – I had remembered what pocket my knife was in, but I would need to put the flowers down to draw it. "Several people know about you three – I doubt you'll get far, even if you kidnap me."

Luke laughed and took an easy step towards me, his lean body coiling in preparation to strike.

I threw the flowers in his face and ran.

* * *

><p>The graveyard was wide and long; the morning fog had settled thickly in the corners, and I leaped the first three stones before the men could pull themselves together and come after me.<p>

"Take the right! Holt, take the left! The rest of you split up and go around!"

Someone was shouting orders; it sounded like the Inspector, and I knew Luke was probably sprinting after me. I whisked around a huge stone angel and ran faster; there was no way in hell I was going to let him catch me again.

I knew I had a head start; it might be possible to break free of Luke's men and get out of the graveyard without someone tackling me. A stitch formed in my side, but the graveyard wall was just ahead: I might make it to the gate in time.

Something hissed past my ear; I flinched and began zigzagging – who was throwing things? I hoped it wasn't arrows or darts or something of that nature, although it probably was.

The gravestone I had just run past cracked as something hit it hard, and I glanced over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of a blond head bobbing behind me.

Maybe Luke had run into one of the tombstones. I hoped so.

As I finally reached the gate, its long steel bars looming up over my head, I thrust it open and dashed through, praying I would reach my carriage in time.

But there was no carriage there, only horses. I ran to them, caught one of their reins, and pulled myself onto her back.

There was a cry from the corner – Luke's men were catching up. I kicked the mare; she reared, and we were off, galloping down the street.

Something cracked – it was a gun; they were shooting at me, and I heard the Inspector scream.

"No, you fool! Don't shoot! We want her alive!"

I turned around, saw a flash of bright hair at the gate, and spurred the mare on.

_Wham!_

Something slammed into the side of my face, and everything went black.

* * *

><p>I woke to something soft underneath me, and the sound of heavy breathing.<p>

"She's waking up."

I opened my eyes, and tried to sit up and reach for my knife, but someone took hold of my shoulders, thrusting me back down.

Luke leaned over me, his eyes eerily blue in the darkness of the room. His breath smelled like mint.

"Where are we?" I croaked. It felt like my head was going to split open.

"We're somewhere nice, dear. Holt, light the candles, won't you?"

Luke's crony lit the candles, illuminating the walls and the floors, and I groaned inwardly. We seemed to be in a rather contemptible hotel, judging from the state of the furniture.

"Tell me where we are," I said, managing to sit up this time. They had not tied me up, but my knife was gone, and my head ached so badly I doubted I would get far even if I got out of the room.

The Inspector was not there, neither were a few of the men, only Luke and the rest of them, three in all. Cooper leaned against the wall; he had said nothing to me at the graveyard, and he said nothing now.

They had knives, and Luke had his sword: I eyed them, wondering if I could overpower one of the men and steal his weapon. I doubted I could overpower Luke. Or perhaps I could get out through the window – there were several along the wall.

"Don't even think about it, dear," Luke said, fingering the hilt of his sword. "It won't be hard for me to use this."

The door banged open, and the Inspector came in, scowling as he saw Luke. "I told you you're not to harm her. Take your hand off that sword and sit down. The rest of you, go outside with the others. Don't let anyone in."

The men nodded sullenly and went outside, and the Inspector locked the door behind them.

He pocketed the key and turned to face me, smiling grimly. "Mademoiselle Dubois, why don't you take a seat? We have no intentions of harming you."

"Tell _him_ that," I said, nodding at Luke. "He's just informed me he wants to carve me up."

The Inspector shook his head, and tsked-tsked at his ally. "He won't be touching you, Mademoiselle. Again, why don't you sit down? I'm sure you have quite a headache."

I sat. There was no point in wasting my strength. "Why am I here, Inspector? I can't imagine what use you have for me."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Luke sneered. "We have quite a lot of use for you, Katelienne, some of us more than others."

"_Behave_, Luke," the Inspector snapped. "Mademoiselle Dubois, we only have a few questions, and then you'll be free to go. We don't want to hurt you; of course, if you give us reason to, we may have to, but you seem a sensible woman."

"I'm very sensible," I agreed, envying his calm tone. "Ask me your questions."

In reality, I was calculating the distance to the window and my chances of escaping: it was very foolish for the Inspector to have sent all the men outside. I thought that if I got up, kicked the chair into Luke's path, and ran to the windows, I might be able to open one of them before Luke could get to me. Of course, this all depended on if the windows were locked, and how long it would take to open them.

The Inspector smiled, acknowledging my cool head. "But before we begin, I think we should take some necessary precautions."

He looked at Luke. "Tie her up."

As Luke turned away from me to the opposite wall, I sprang to my feet and dashed to the window, prying at it with my fingers.

It snapped open, creaking as it swung out; I brought my leg up on the ledge, pulled my shoulders through, and crawled through to stand on the edge of the sill.

My heart dropped as I looked down. I had expected the ground to be only a few feet away, but it was more around a hundred.

We were on the ninth floor, and there was no chance of me jumping, none at all.


	44. Chapter 44: Rhododendrons

I looked up: the story above me also had windows, and there was a ledge only a foot away.

Someone grabbed at my foot; I kicked out, and grabbed desperately for the ledge.

My fingers caught and held. I reached my other hand up, grabbed hold of the stone, and pulled myself up off the window ledge I had been standing on.

For a sickening moment, my feet dangled in thin air; but then I was up and over and scrambling onto the upper window ledge.

I rose to my feet and looked down, clutching the metal bars over the window for support.

Luke was forcing himself through the lower window, but he was having some problems because his shoulders were too wide. I smirked down at him (he cursed at me and tried to draw his sword – a lot of help _that_ would be) and I climbed higher.

* * *

><p>By the time I reached the roof, I was reconsidering my plan. Where would I go from here?<p>

I heaved myself over the railing and landed on the rooftop: several loose cobblestones skittered away as my feet hit them. I had to skid to a stop before I fell.

Below me, I could hear shouts of dismay and annoyance as the men tried to locate me. The Inspector's voice was loudest, rising above the others with a high-strung quality.

I ran to the other side of the roof, watching my steps – nearly all the stones were loose – and looked over the edge.

We were in Paris, that much was certain, but I had never seen this section of town before. In the distance, a steeple rose above the little, squat buildings, and my heart leaped.

A church would be the best place to hide from Luke and his men; the rest of the buildings were too small.

I looked across the roof: the building next to the hotel was nearly the same height, and its roof was empty. I shrugged, hastily considered the rest of my options (there were none, besides climbing down the front of the hotel), and began to hurry across the cobblestones towards the other building.

Something flashed past me and landed, shuddering, in the stones.

Luke's sword.

I broke into a run, determined not to fall for this stupid trick again. I had almost reached the edge of the roof, when I heard the sound of heavy footsteps and someone threw himself on me.

We both landed hard on the stones, and my shoulder screamed in pain as it struck an errant cobblestone. I rolled away from my attacker; he had let go when we had fallen, and scrambled to my feet.

* * *

><p>I was surrounded: five men, including Luke, were on the rooftop, and the man who had tackled me was Cooper.<p>

"You're pathetic," I snarled, looking around at all of them, vaguely aware that my forehead was bleeding again. "I can't believe it takes seven men to overpower one woman."

Luke was breathing heavily; otherwise he would have answered, but he reached for his sword and directed its sharp tip to my face.

The rest of the men seemed interested to see what would happen next.

I backed away, hoping to get to the roof edge, but Cooper lashed out with an open hand and I staggered away from him.

"Cowards," I spat, and Luke's eyes lit with madness. I was surprised, to tell the truth, I hadn't suspected that this one word would so enrage him.

He reached into his pocket and took out his knife, dropping the sword on the ground carelessly, and I dove for it.

His wild sweep barely missed my head, but I was away and back on my feet before he could strike out again.

I had the sword: I swung it in a frantic circle as Cooper made to grab my arm, and he backed away, very close to the edge of the roof. The left side had no railings.

The cobblestone under his foot turned, and he toppled backwards, into midair.

Our eyes met – he thrust forward a hand – I reached out – and our fingers did not clasp.

Cooper fell noiselessly away; his spectacles flying off in the rush of air, and I turned before he hit the ground below. I did not want to see the end result.

Luke had frozen, along with the rest of the men; some of them had hurried to the edge to watch, but now all of them turned their eyes on me, and their gazes were vicious.

I stepped forward and attacked Luke.

* * *

><p>If Luke had his sword, and I had another, we would have been matched unevenly, for it was clear Luke was the better swordsman.<p>

But now Luke had to parry my wild strikes with a small knife, and he was hard-pressed to defend himself.

"Stay _away_," Luke snarled, speaking to the men that had begun to surround us, and swung at me. "I can handle her!"

"I don't – think – so," I panted, swiping at his face, the sword singing as it cut through the air, and Luke fell back yet another pace.

Though the air was cold, his brow was streaming with sweat; he gasped for air as his knife flashed.

His weapon connected with the sword, ringing with the sound of metal on metal, and sending shivers of pain up my arms, but I swirled the sword around and broke the lock.

I pressed forward, swinging at his head – the blade ripped a stripe of red in his shoulder. I cried out in triumph, and Luke cried out in fury and in pain.

He was at the railing now, his back was against the metal, and he knew he was going to lose. I saw it in his eyes, but he refused to give me the satisfaction of calling out for help, only brought the knife handle down on my right hand.

I ignored the horrible, pounding pain, and stabbed the point of my sword at his chest, but he leaned to the side and I missed.

His blue eyes met mine: the cold expression in them sent tremors up my back.

He kicked out at me, hoping to knock me over, but I swung at his unprotected chest with the sword, forcing him to lean precariously backwards over the railing to avoid the blade.

He turned the knife in his hand, the metal glimmering in the sunlight, and threw it.

I was barely a foot away; I fell to my knees in order to avoid the deadly missile, landing hard on the cobblestones, and Luke lunged forward.

The sword was angled up; it had slipped between my knees when I fell, and it pierced deep, very deeply, into Luke's chest.

* * *

><p>"What is going on up here?"<p>

Luke toppled over onto his side, his eyes staring unseeingly into mine, the red stain spreading around the sword in his chest.

Someone dragged me roughly to my feet; I snatched for the sword handle, but missed.

My attacker swung me around, ignoring my attempts to elbow him, and set me on my feet, twisting my arms behind my back.

The Inspector stood in the middle of the rooftop, his thick body tense with disgust and disappointment, staring at Luke's prone body. His lip curled as he looked up at me.

"Get her out of here," he said.

I screamed and fought; desperate to get free, but the man who held my arms behind my back did not let go, even when I dug my nails into his forearms.

* * *

><p>It took four men to drag me back into the room; I struggled the whole way.<p>

But they reached the corridor at last, and they shoved me inside the room, slamming the door shut.

I looked around from my place on the floor – they had knocked me off my feet when they shoved me inside – rubbing my bruised arms and trying to think.

The windows were now blocked by heavy pieces of furniture.

I got to my feet and stumbled over to a wardrobe, began shoving at it with my shoulder.

It did not move, only creaked, and I stepped back. I was very hungry; I hadn't eaten since lunch, and it had been at least three hours since then.

"I am _not_ going to give up," I told myself, shivering in the cold air of the room. "The Phantom's waiting for me; I have to get back."

I slipped between the wardrobe and a cabinet and shoved at them, pushing hard.

The cabinet slid out, very slowly, and I began to clear a path to the window.

_Amateurs_, I thought. _They haven't even left anyone in the room to guard me._

It was then that I smelled the smoke.

* * *

><p>The fire was licking at the door by the time I managed to pull the rest of the furniture away and yank the window up.<p>

The smoke billowed into the room, curling around my skirts.

I stepped onto the ledge, looked up at the roof, and saw the flames descending from above, their long red tendrils scorching the wood.

I could not go up.

I looked down, lowered myself to my knees, and slid off the ledge.

My hands wrapped around the edge before I slipped the whole way off; my feet struck something solid, and I kicked out the window below.

The glass sprayed everywhere, and with it came a grunt of pain.

There was someone in the room; I fell to my knees on the lower ledge (my skirts protecting me from the glass shards) and peered inside. Was it a guest? Had I hurt them?

But no, it was a bewhiskered and furious face that looked back at me; one of Luke's men.

Blood dripped down his face, running into his beard, red liquid on brown hairs, and he reached out a long arm for me.

I swung down again, landing painfully on another ledge.

The man above shouted, "She's here! The fourth floor!"

But I was already on the third, and dropping to the second, and I knew they would not catch me.

Unless…

I turned and stared down at the ground.

The Inspector was waiting below, standing in front of a black carriage, and there were two men with him. They could see me; they stared up at me, and I saw the Inspector smile.

* * *

><p>I clung to the side of the building, the wind whipping at my skirts, and thought. If I climbed back inside, the men would find me. If I stayed where I was, the fire would burn down the building and me with it. If I climbed down, the Inspector would send his men after me.<p>

Except…

I brought my feet up and broke through the window, and rolled inside, covering my head with my arms as I fell.

I rolled through the glass (I could feel tiny pinpoints of pain through my skirts) came up on my feet, and found that I was in a dining hall.

It was old, deserted, and it smelled of rat droppings. There were cobwebs on the rickety tables, dust on the counters, and the windows at the back were merely boards.

I leaped up onto the nearest table, running over the shaking boards, landed on the second table, and rammed into the boarded windows with my feet.

The boards creaked, groaned, and burst open, and I pulled myself through and landed on yet another window ledge.

But this one was rotten. It fell through instantly.

* * *

><p>I landed in a scratchy bush, unharmed except for the reopened cut in my forehead, and used the thorny branches to get to my feet.<p>

There was no one at the front of the hotel except for a beggar, his eyes wide.

"Pardon me," I said, gasping for breath. "Just trying to escape from my kidnappers."

The beggar nodded confusedly.

I pulled myself out of the bush and hurried away down the empty street.

* * *

><p>I knew the Inspector would have gotten in the carriage in search of me; that his men were even now on the lookout, but as I hid in an alleyway, peering stealthily around a pile of trash, I felt a faint stirring of hope.<p>

Perhaps I would manage to reach the church before they found me.

A carriage rattled noisily by; I shrank back into the shadows, putting an arm over my face.

It passed.

I took a deep breath, (instantly regretting it because the trash smelled putrid) and pressed my hand to my forehead. It was still bleeding, but sluggishly, so I had hopes that it would stop soon.

I wondered what the Phantom was doing; if he had left to look for me at the graveyard, only to find nothing. I wondered if he had even begun searching yet; if he had even noticed how long I had been gone.

_Don't be a fool,_ a small voice whispered in my head. _He's looking for you; don't you know the man at all?_

I acquiesced. Yes, the Phantom was not a man to give up simply because things became difficult, nor was he one to let things slip by unnoticed. He had probably left the Opera House as soon as he had noticed I had been gone for too long.

And he was a formidable ally; I doubted even five men would be enough to overpower him.

These encouraging thoughts allowed me to breathe a little easier. I got to my feet and tread lightly out of the alleyway, following the steeple that rose above the buildings. I would get to the church, and then I would find my way home.

* * *

><p>The church was small and quiet, but the candles in the back were lit. I could see the pews through the open doors, but the real reason why I was here was for people. If the priest was here, it would be unlikely that the Inspector would pull up in his carriage and attempt to drag me inside.<p>

I glimpsed someone's head in the front pew; they seemed to be praying, but there was a hood over their head, so I was unsure if they were the priest or not. I slipped inside the doors and stood against the wall, waiting for a carriage to pass. I could get a ride back to the Opera House; I still had a few coins in my purse.

The next carriage, however, that drew up to the church was one I recognized.

The Inspector got out (not without difficulty) and stood, swaying dangerously, on the carriage step, peering into the dark recesses of the church.

"Go inside and search the place," he said, his thick lips crimping at the edges as he eyed the place. Perhaps he was not too keen on God.

The men flooded out of the other side of the carriage, their boots ringing on the cobblestones, and I hurried to the back of the church, passing the praying man on my way to the confessional. If I could get inside, maybe I could hide. There was no back door in this church; only an organ.

The man looked up, and I nearly gasped aloud.

It was the Count.


	45. Chapter 45: Forget Me Not

_Once again, thank you for your amazing reviews! I have reached the **100 **mark!_

_I think I will go die of the shock..._

* * *

><p>"Katelienne?" the Count asked, eyeing me with a measure of confusion. "What are you doing here?"<p>

"Get in the confessional," I gasped, "come _on_, there's people after me."

The Count got up, drawing his hood off, and glanced back at the doorway. "Who? What people? What do you mean they're after you? Why are you covered in dirt and blood?"

I caught hold of his arm and tugged. "Francis, remember what I told you about the Inspector? Well, he's trying to kill me. So get a move on before we both die."

Count Le Nansen followed me, without further ado, to the back of the church, both of us creeping along in the shadows like cockroaches.

The Inspector's men had entered the church and fanned out along the pews – it was lucky, really, that most of the candles weren't lit – and they seemed to be having some doubts about being inside.

"Here," the Count whispered, indicating a small door behind the organ, one I hadn't seen earlier. "We can get out this way."

He took the lead; I crept behind him, wincing as something snapped under my foot, but the men had begun to argue loudly (hired thugs were never very reliable) and they didn't seem to have heard.

The Count pushed open the door and we hurried through, emerging into a tiny passageway with a very low roof.

* * *

><p>I carefully shut the creaky door behind us, and the Count quietly threw the bolt.<p>

"We're going to have to crawl," he said in an undertone.

I nodded. I could do anything after climbing up and down a hotel via window ledges.

"You first," he said, hesitating. I stared at his back.

"I can't get around you; you'll have to go first," I said. "Please hurry Francis; I think they're getting closer."

"I hate tunnels," he breathed. His voice sounded shaky. I banged myself on the head with my fist. Why on earth did the Count have to succumb to claustrophobia at this very moment?

"I don't care," I hissed. "We are _inches _away from imminent death. Start crawling."

His teeth had begun to chatter; I could hear them clicking together in the darkness. I shoved him in the back.

"I will _kill _you if we die in here, Count, please, please start crawling!"

The Count began to crawl, his feet kicking up dust as they dragged along the floor.

It sounded like the Inspector had entered the church: I could hear the familiar high-pitched whine of his voice.

"Search the back; hurry up. We don't have all day."

The Count had come to a halt – I was about to poke him when I realized he was fumbling with a door.

* * *

><p>It swung out, revealing the cold, clear light of day, and he scrambled out into the alleyway behind the church, bending down to give me a hand up.<p>

"Now what?" he panted. There was a line of sweat dripping down his left cheek, tracing a path through the grey covering of dust.

"We find a carriage. What did you take to get here?"

"I walked," he replied, looking around in a panic. "We have to get out of here."

"I _know_ that," I said impatiently. "Let's find a busy street; there'll be something there to take us to the Opera."

* * *

><p>An hour later, the Count and I were sitting in the back of a carriage, the road rattling away underneath us.<p>

"So this Inspector wants to kill you," he said, shaking his head as I tried to hand him back his bloodstained handkerchief. "You can keep that."

"I suppose so," I said, pressing the cloth to my forehead again. "I guess he feels that I know too much. I doubt he'll stop searching for me."

"And Luke and Cooper are dead?"

I stared out of the window, gripping my hands together in my lap. "I think so, yes."

"Are you all right?"

"No," I said, watching the grey buildings flash past. "I'm not."

The Count said nothing for a moment.

"You know the Inspector will go to the Opera after he fails to find you here."

"Yes, I know."

"Then why are we going back there? He's a policeman; no one will question him. He could drag you down to jail within a week."

I did not want to tell him about the Phantom, but I had to tell him something. I leaned forward.

"Francis, I know I can trust you, correct?"

"Of course," the Count said, leaning a little forward himself. "What is it?"

"There's a long labyrinth of secret passageways underneath the Opera; I can hide out there for a long time without being too uncomfortable."

* * *

><p>The Count, to my great surprise, began to laugh.<p>

I waited very patiently for him to stop.

After a few minutes, he pulled himself together, swiped at the moisture under his eyes, and said, "Katelienne, do you really think the Phantom would have ignored me? He came to my office a few hours after you talked to me yesterday. I know all about him. Well, mostly all about him."

"But, but," I sputtered, "but he would never do that!"

"The Phantom, as you call him, is much more sensible than you think. He knew he would need a powerful ally inside the Opera House – he thinks I'm a good choice, for some odd reason – and he convinced me last night to shift his monthly payments to feed into the Opera itself. He knows we need the money."

I stared at him. "He did all that so the Opera wouldn't lose money?"

The Count leaned back comfortably in his seat. "I don't know why he did it; perhaps you should ask him."

I twisted my hands together, smiling, and stared out the window again. It seemed the Phantom was more generous than I had given him credit for.

* * *

><p>When we pulled up at the Opera House, the windows inside were gold with candlelight, and I could hear talk and laughter from within.<p>

The Count opened the carriage door and went down the steps, turning to offer me his hand.

The carriage drove away, and I hurried up the steps with the Count behind me, hoping that the Inspector would not appear at this exact moment and arrest me.

But he did not; we went inside, and the heavy double doors closed behind us.

* * *

><p>The first thing I noticed was that the lobby was full of people, and the second thing I noticed was that they were all holding newspapers.<p>

_MANAGER VANISHES FROM OPERA; RUMORS OF ELOPEMENT WITH HIRED WRITER_

_WRITER IS SUCH A FLIRT – FEMALE OPERA GUEST TELLS ALL_

_STRANGE WOMAN WRITER ENGAGED TO OPERA MANAGER_

Everyone in the lobby stared interestedly at me; a few women snickered.

I had blood, dirt, and sweat on my face; my dress now resembled a large moth ball, and I was marginally sure that at least some of the fabric in my skirts was ripped and holey. A ripple of whispers went through the group of people; some newspapers flapped as their owners rustled them.

"And now she's going after the Count," one of the ladies whispered loudly to her neighbor. "Does she have no shame?"

"Good afternoon," the Count said, staring around at the mix of stagehands, Opera gossips, singers, and assorted people. "Don't you all have something to do?"

The group began to disperse, very slowly, but the whispers continued. I cleared my throat and lowered my head; I hated when people stared at me, and wished I could slip through the gleaming tiles.

The Count swept in front of me and cleared a path through the remainder of the gaping, mindless crowd, and I went after him. I followed him out of the room, stopped momentarily to take a newspaper from a table (I would read the scathing articles later), and went into the auditorium.

Madame Giry was running the ballet girls through a dance, supervised by Madame Martin; she turned at the sound of the Count's footsteps.

"Katelienne! You're all right! Where have you been?"

She flew down the aisle, her cane forgotten on the stage, and threw her arms around me.

I staggered back from the force of her hug, but laughed and embraced her anyway. "Several places, actually, but I don't think this is the best place to talk about it."

"No, dear, of course not," she whispered in my ear. "I'll come up to your room tonight; I have to do this stupid rehearsal."

She released me and headed back up the aisle, and the Count cleared his throat.

"Uh, why don't you meet me at my office later?" he asked. "I'd like to discuss a few things with you about the Opera."

I nodded and waved at him. "I'm off to see… well, you know who I'm going to see. Goodbye, Francis. And thank you again."

* * *

><p>I had decided to take the passageway in my room to the Phantom's house, and was trying to remember which spot on the wall opened the hidden door, when it swung open by itself and the Phantom stepped through.<p>

"Thank God you're all right," he said. There was a tremor in his cheek from a twitching muscle, and another tremor in his voice. "I went to the graveyard… but you weren't there."

"No," I said, sinking into my chair, "I wasn't."

"I couldn't find you; I searched everywhere, but I couldn't find you."

He was gazing blankly at the wall; the sight tore at my heart. I rose to my feet and went to him, putting my arms around him.

"I'm all right," I whispered. "I'm here."

His gentle fingers stroked my hair, and I felt him relax, the taut muscles in his back slowly smoothing out.

"Why are you covered in blood?"

"Oh, Phantom," I said, keeping back a sob, "there's so much I have to tell you."

* * *

><p>An hour later, I was sitting in his living room with Wednesday draped over my knee, and he was standing a few feet away, in front of the fire.<p>

"So they're both dead."

I nodded, stroking Wednesday's soft head. The Phantom had informed me that she'd finally let him give her a bath.

"They're both dead. And I killed them both, both of them."

He turned at the pain in my voice, crossed the room to kneel in front of my chair.

"Katelienne, it was in self-defense. Furthermore, Cooper fell. You couldn't have helped him any more than you had."

"It doesn't make me any less a murderer," I breathed, trying to stop the tears from forming in my eyes.

He picked up Wednesday and put her on the floor, took my hands and pulled me to my feet.

"Do you really think I'll let you destroy yourself over this? How many ways can I tell you before you'll believe me? Katelienne, you can't let Luke – or Cooper – ruin your life. Remember what you told me all those nights ago? You have to find a way to be happy, or they'll have won."

I tugged my hand away from his to run a knuckle under my eyes. "I know, I know; I know you're right. It's just that right now – right now I feel horrible. I wish they had never showed up in my life in the first place; otherwise they'd still be alive – and so would Claire."

"It was their choices that brought them to their deaths, Katelienne. They chose to hurt Claire – and in return, they were hurt themselves."

His eyes sought mine; I looked up into his face, his familiar, dark face, and nodded.

"An eye for an eye."

"Yes," he said. He lifted his hands from mine, ran them down my shoulders. "I suppose you must be hungry. I think I have some soup."

"Soup sounds wonderful," I said, smiling, and swallowing away the ache in my throat. "Let me go wash up first."

* * *

><p>When I came down the hall, I heard the soft sound of singing from behind the kitchen door.<p>

I smiled to myself and pushed it open.

"What are you singing?"

The Phantom turned away from the stove, stirring a pot of soup with one hand and shrugged. "An old song. I think it's called _Le Petit Cheval_ or something. Why don't you sit down?"

I pulled out a chair from the table, but I did not sit. His song had reminded me of something.

"The Count told me you told him about yourself."

"Mmhmm," he said, now shaking pepper into the steaming pot. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm not asking," I said, leaning against the table. "I'm just wondering what you told him."

The Phantom laughed, the irrepressible sound bouncing off the walls, and I couldn't help but smile.

"I lied, a lot," he said, ladling the soup into two bowls, "and I think he's partly convinced himself that I'm a ghost."

"Oh, please," I said disgustedly, accepting my bowl from him, "did you really? No wonder he wouldn't tell me much about it."

"Yes, well, from the tone of his voice during our meeting, he sounded rather ill at ease. Poor Count Le Nansen. I really have no intention of harming him."

"So." I took a piece of bread from the plate on the table. "The Count knows, Madame Giry knows, does anyone else?"

"No," the Phantom said, "unless Cooper told the Inspector everything. But I doubt he did; he was such a cowardly, pitiable specimen of the human race."

I raised my eyebrows and bit into my bread.

"You may be right," I said, around a mouthful, "but I doubt Luke didn't. And we should be prepared for the Inspector's return – he'll probably come back to the Opera tonight in search of me."

"Oh, never fear," the masked man said cheerily. "I have several ideas about stopping him. Remember, the Opera is _my _home, and no one is going to arrest you without going through _me _– and a few other obstacles – first."

And with that, the Phantom took a bite of soup, smiled, and changed the conversation to the weather.


	46. Chapter 46: Blue Rose

Later that evening, the Phantom, I, Madame Giry, and the Count stood on the roof, looking down over the edge with differing expressions.

Madame Giry's lips were pursed in disgust, the Count was frowning, and the Phantom's face was implacable. I, for once, was only watching the street, with a feeling of slight detachment.

We were all gazing down at a familiar black carriage that had just pulled up to the Opera House.

Madame Giry broke the silence. "I hope you have a good plan, Erik."

"Me too," the Count said nervously. "I'd rather not have my writer arrested."

I looked at the Phantom and said nothing.

"I do," the Phantom said to us, his eyes on the street. "Just wait one moment."

The Inspector stepped out of the carriage, his broad top hat bobbing in the wind, and lurched his way up the steps. He was accompanied by several uniformed policemen.

"Do you think they're actual officers?" Madame Giry asked. "Last time, they could have been Garmin's men."

"Who knows," I said. I pushed away from the railing. "They're inside; let's go watch what happens."

"Remember the plan," the Phantom said to me, turning away from the street. "I'd rather not have you arrested either."

"I'm _me_, remember?" I told him. "I'll get out of it if something does go wrong; I've survived practically everything else this year. And I have all of you with me – it will be fine."

I hoped.

* * *

><p>We had arranged for me to be onstage when the Inspector arrived: the complete incongruity of it all would make him look there last.<p>

The ballet girls were practicing; so I stood in the wings, watching them turn and swirl gracefully around the polished floor, their hair swept back into buns. Madame Giry stood on the opposite side of the stage, her eyes on them, but I knew she was thinking about me.

I envied the dancers their ignorance of what was going to happen in a few moments' time.

The great double doors swung open at the back of the auditorium, and the ballet stuttered to a halt as the Inspector came down the aisle, his men flanking him.

"Something wrong, Inspector?" Madame Martin asked, hurrying from behind the dancers to the edge of the stage.

"We're looking for a Mademoiselle Laurent," the Inspector said in his tinny voice, holding up a warrant for my arrest.

The double doors at the back of the hall swung shut noiselessly, but no one noticed except me.

Madame Martin glanced around the stage; her eyes found mine, but she only turned back to the Inspector and shook her head. "She's not here; I'm sorry. Why do you need her?"

The Inspector spoke to his men quietly. They fanned out through the aisles, searching.

"She's wanted for murder, Madame. Have you seen her in the last twenty-four hours?"

The lights in the back of the auditorium began to go out, and I stiffened. That was my cue.

Madame Martin shook her head again, wordlessly.

The ballet girls parted for me as I walked into the center of the stage, my hands shaking at my sides (I wished, suddenly, for Claire) and stared down into the Inspector's shocked face.

His heavy shoulders began to shake with laughter; a massive smile spread across his flabby cheeks, and the mustache under his nose puffed out horribly with amusement.

"There you are, Mademoiselle Laurent. So good of you to turn yourself in quietly."

"_Oh, I wouldn't go __**that**__ far, Inspector."_

The sibilant voice hissed around the auditorium; a ballet girl shrieked in shock, and Madame Giry shooed the dancers off the stage, sending a very bewildered Madame Martin after them.

She came to stand next to me, taking my hand in hers. The policemen were regrouping in front of the stage, obviously waiting for the Inspector's next command, but he had fallen silent.

"_What, are you frightened? What did Garmin tell you? Or perhaps he said nothing, nothing at all…"_

The Inspector slowly drew himself up to his full height. "I see. The 'Phantom' is real, after all. But a voice won't stop me from arresting you, Mademoiselle, and neither will the ballet instructor. Come along quietly, or I'll be forced to set my men on you."

I wasn't listening, I was examining the faces of the policemen with him, and I smiled. None of them were real policemen – they were Garmin's thugs, and I recognized them from the earlier events of that day.

I looked up at Box Five and winked.

And the lights went out.

* * *

><p>Madame Giry and I stood where we were, breathless in the dark, listening to the sounds of combat below.<p>

A shriek…

A gasp…

Something crunched…

The sound of metal on metal…

Had that been a gunshot?

No, it was only something breaking. I hoped it was wood, and not bone.

The sounds died down, slowly, the near silence broken only by muffled gasps of pain and slowing breaths.

* * *

><p>When the lights came up again, there were six policemen unconscious on the floor, and one sleeping Inspector, his broad face slick with sweat, his tiny eyelids shut.<p>

The Phantom had vanished into the shadows of the Opera, leaving behind only two small clear vials - sedatives. Both of them rolled down the aisle to the stage, clinking against each other as they came to a stop.

I stepped off the stage onto the carpet below, and lifted the vials in my hands, dropping them into my pocket. They were empty.

* * *

><p>"They won't remember anything," the Count repeated later, in his office. He was pacing up and down; I didn't think he quite knew how to respond.<p>

"Their amnesia will extend from the last Sunday night until now," the Phantom said, leaning against Garmin's desk. "They'll have lost a whole week of memories."

"So," Madame Giry said, "let me see if I have this right. We're telling them they wandered drunkenly into the Opera and collapsed on the floor of the auditorium."

"No one was in the lobby, so no one can say otherwise. And from what Madame Martin said, she's not going to tell anyone about it, and neither are the ballet girls."

"I made sure of _that_," Madame Giry said, staring at him in displeasure. "You'd think I was a stupid old woman."

"No one thinks that!" I said, feeling rather awful. "You're extremely intelligent, Madame Giry. You were the one that tried to stop me from coming here in the first place, and you were right to do so!"

The Count shook his head, still pacing, and groaned. "I am so thankful this night is over. You have no idea how thankful I am this night is over. Oh, yes, Katelienne, I wanted to talk to you about your job."

"You had better not be thinking about firing her," the Phantom said dangerously, breaking a pen in half and dripping ink onto the Oriental rug. "Or our deal is off."

"All right," I said, hastily stepping in front of the Phantom in case he decided to attack, "the Count would never do such a thing. Francis, I'll talk to you about it right now, if you wish."

Francis stared at his ruined rug.

Madame Giry made a huffing noise. "I'm off to bed; I have no intention of staying here all night. Goodnight, Katelienne. Goodnight, Erik. Goodnight, Count, and do not wake me up tomorrow and demand that I go practice with the ballet girls, because I'm taking the day off."

The Count waved a hand in weary agreement, and Madame Giry let herself out.

* * *

><p>Francis sat on the edge of his desk and eyed the Phantom warily, who was poking at the nasty prima donna portrait and humming under his breath.<p>

"So," I said, keen to break the silence, "what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Do _he_ have to be here?" the Count whispered to me. "Does he really have to be?"

"Well, no." I turned to the Phantom, who was now picking at the clotted paint of the prima donna's shoes. "Do you mind stepping out for a moment, dear?"

"I don't answer to writers, dear," the masked man answered.

"Go away, you lunatic," I snapped.

"If you insist." He flicked a few paint scraps onto the floor and made his way to the door, brushing past the Count as he passed. "Have a nice talk."

"We will," the Count said nervously. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," the Phantom said, smoothly, and went outside.

* * *

><p>I turned back to Francis as the door shut. "See, he's not so bad, is he?"<p>

"That depends by what you mean by 'bad'," the Count said, shuddering. "Okay, now that everyone's gone – or they _supposedly_ are – I'd like to ask you what you want to do here. I know you don't want to write operas, and that you're currently working on a book, but do you want to do something else, something more permanent?"

"Such as what?" I asked. "Painting or something?"

"Well, no. I meant – I meant perhaps you could work for me."

"As in Cooper's old job?" I asked, taken aback. "I don't quite understand you."

"No, I didn't mean that either. I was wondering – maybe while you were writing your novel – you could write advertisements for me on the side, to go in the newspapers. Maybe you could work the Phantom into them -"

"-or perhaps," I interrupted, "seeing as the public is still enraged at his latest prank, I could simply declare the greatness of our Opera; you know, write about its attractions and so on."

The Count eyed me hopefully. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes," I agreed, rising to my feet. "I'll start tomorrow. You are going to be able to pay me, correct? I could use the money. And Francis – you can call me Irene. It _is_ my name, after all."

"All right," the Count said, turning the name over in his mouth. "Irene. Irene what?"

"Dubois. Irene Dubois."

* * *

><p>I found the Phantom in the second-story corridor. He was staring thoughtfully at the Liberty tapestry.<p>

"I seem to recall you did this a few weeks ago," I said, coming down the corridor towards him. "Why are you looking at again?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said vaguely. "It's just the expression in her eyes… I can't resist the pathos of it all…"

I snorted. "That is clearly a lie. Stop staring at that and come with me. I have something to tell you."

He turned to look at me, his dark hair glimmering in the light from the candles overhead, and grinned. "I suppose you've finally gotten tired of the suspense."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, although I did, and went past him to the other staircase. "Let's go to the roof; it's been a rather good place to meet, hasn't it?"

* * *

><p>I sat on the bench in front of the fountain, listening to the water splash into the basin, waiting for the Phantom to finish dawdling and come inside.<p>

"What are you doing?" I said loudly. "I suppose you decided to go look at the stars or something?"

Something fell into my lap: a white rose with thorns stripped off of its dark stem. I picked it up; sniffed its petals – it smelled like rain, and summer.

"I was not staring at the sky," the Phantom retorted indignantly, coming to stand in front of me. "I was picking a flower for you."

"I guessed that," I said, holding up the rose. "Why are you standing all the way over there? Come sit down."

"I prefer to remain standing around you; sometimes you slice people up with knives."

I winced – Luke's face had just flashed into my mind, followed immediately by Cooper's.

The Phantom came towards me, stepping lightly over the cobblestones, and put a hand on my cheek. "I'm sorry, Katelienne."

I smiled up at him, letting the memories slip away into the back of my head, and patted his hand. "That reminds me. I remember what I wanted to talk to you about."

The Phantom sat down next to me. "What is it?"

"Names," I said. "I don't know your real name, well, not really, and you don't know mine. Unless you were eavesdropping on me and the Count, but that is besides the point. Tonight, we should trade them – and afterward I'll tell you everything that happened with Luke, and Claire, and the Inspector, and the events that led up to everything. And you can tell me about yourself."

His eyes were very green in the dim light; he held out his hand to me in agreement. I took it, remembering the first bargain we had made so long ago.

"Irene Dubois," I said, and looked expectantly at him.

"My name is Erik."


	47. Epilogue: Olive Branches

_**To my dear readers:**_

_First of all, I'd like to thank each and every one of my reviewers: RedDeathLvr, 13sapphire13, Why Fireflies Flash, Kassandra203, angelofmusic75, SexyKnickers, cynthiatophklepinger, Absinth-and-Whiskey, La Copine, gothicflower, grapejuice101, Girl Who Wants To Be With Erik, and Christine Spencer. _

_If I missed any of you (or accidentally spelled your names wrong – I hope I didn't!), I am deeply sorry - I cherished each and every one of your reviews._

_To my non-reviewers – but still my readers: thank you so much for reading, and you can send me a review or a comment any time at all! I appreciate you taking the time to read my story, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it._

* * *

><p><em><strong>All right, down to business:<strong>_

_I absolutely __loved__ every minute of writing this story: it's been in progress for a long time, and I never imagined I would get such a big response from all of you. I deeply appreciated all of your comments._

_However, I am not going to write more chapters to this story – it is finished. I may write a sequel - I do have plot twists and story lines drifting around in the back of my head; and I want you to know that I am as deeply invested in these characters as you are. _

_I promise you, I will post another fanfiction, but it may not happen for a while. I may post one about a different cast of characters, or I may even post one about a different plot altogether (i.e., not the POTO movie), but eventually - eventually, I will write one again._

_Thank you all so much for reading! I promise I will alert you when I begin a new story!_

_- Coquillage_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Epilogue<strong>_

**And so,** the Phantom and Katelienne lived happily ever after, although their lives were punctuated by bursts of danger, suspense, and mystery, which was nice, because they liked those sorts of things and met them head-on.

The Count married Jeanette (their wedding was quite fancy), and remained the manager of the Opera for a long period of time.

Madame Giry remained the ballet instructor, taking over Madame Martin's post (who came down with a bout of mumps and had to depart, but that is another story). Madame Giry also became Katelienne's stand-in mother, and was the person to whom Katelienne always came to for advice and motherly affection.

The Inspector never managed to arrest Katelienne for murder, which pleased everyone except for him.

Katelienne published her book, which was a bestseller; the Phantom of the Opera became a household name, and Erik had his fill of fame - until he became sick of it and told Katelienne that she was never to publish another book about him. She, of course, readily agreed, seeing as she hadn't really wanted to publish it in the first place, and teased him about it until he threatened (jokingly, of course) to make the Count fire her.

The two lovers (if you were able to descend into the depths of the Opera in search of them) could often be found in Erik's house, and later, they were married in a quiet, nearly secret ceremony, but that is another story.

Within the Opera, Katelienne continued to be known by her fake name, which her friends used with affection, and neglected to take up her old one, except when Erik addressed her by it in the privacy of their home. It must be stated that she was the only one (besides Madame Giry) who called him Erik, as he had wished her to.

The Opera House was never empty of guests, workers, performers, or laughter.

And Katelienne and Erik argued with each other, jumped off buildings to escape people, chased down murderers, attended masquerade balls, got into swordfights, and loved each other to their hearts' content.

_**The End**_

* * *

><p><em><strong><span>For my new readers:<span>** since the end of this story I have published a sequel (and am currently working on a third installment). The sequel is called **Foes, Formidable**, and you should read it before you go on to** Rumors, Reemerging**, which is currently the last installment of Katelienne's and Erik's adventures.  
><em>

_Once again, thank you for reading!  
><em>


End file.
